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'3 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL 


Lovell’s International Series 

OF 

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In Exchange for a Soul 


BY 

MARY LINSKILL 

Author of ‘*A Lost Son,” Etc., Etc. 



NEW YORK 

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142 AND 144 Worth Street 






is 


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Copyright, 1889, 

BY 

JOHN W. LOVELL, 
.. COP/ 

‘St PPL! ED FROM 
eOPYRJGHT FILE§ 
4AHUARY, 1»1t, 


<> 

X 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


CHAPTER 1. 

• THORHILDA THEYN. 

• 0 what a thing is man ! how far from power 
From settled peace and rest 1 
He is some twenty several men at least 
Each several hoar I’ 

George Herbert. 

‘ Happy ! What right hast thou to be happy ?’ 

This pregnant question, asked once emphatically by Carlyle, and 
repeated often by him in modified form, is certainly worthy of 
attention. Consciously or unconsciously, the need for happiness 
is a factor in the life of each one of us ; and no attempt to deny 
the need is so successful as we dream. 

Thorhilda Theyn was not greatly given to self -questioning. So 
far, perhaps, there had seemed to be no special necessity for it in 
her life — that is, no necessity caused by pressure of outward cir- 
cumstance, by any of the strong crises that come upon most human 
fives at one time or another. She was yet young ; she was very 
beautiful. Life was all before her, and the promise of it exceeding 
fair. What need for question so far ? ^ 

Yet as she stood there on that blue, breezy May morfiing, she 
felt herself decidedly in the grasp of some new spirit of inquiry, 
born within her apparently of the day and of the hour, strong at 
its birth, and demanding attention. 

The waters of the North Sea were her grand outlook. They 
were spread all before her across the bay, rippling from point to 
point, leaping, darting, dancing. The free, fresh, rustling sound 
was sweeter to her always than the similar sound of the wind in 
the woodland trees ; and it was soothing as soft music to watch 
the wavelets at play, leaping into light, flashing for a gay, glad 
moment, then dissolving instantly into apparent nothingness. Over 
and over it was all repeated, and the entrancingly uncertain cer- 

1 


2 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUE 


tainty was as a spell to hold her there by the foot of the tall cliffs 
of Ulvstan Bight as one held in a dream. 

‘ They say that life is like that — the poets, the philosophers,* 
Thorhilda said to herself, leaning lightly upon the parapet, tall and 
straight, and still, and beautiful. She was dressed as became her 
stately style, in a fashion that might have been of that day or of 
this, so few of its details were borrowed from any extraneous source. 
Her gown fell gracefully about her feet ; her long cloak almost 
covered it ; her small hands were crossed lightly, and held her hat, 
so that the fair face, so sweet and yet so strong, was all unshaded 
from the morning sun. And it was a face that could well bear the 
full, clear light ; no thought-line was yet graven upon the wide 
forehead, on either side of which the dark abundant hair was 
braided ‘ Madonna- wise * ; deep, changeful gray eyes looked out 
from below the white drooping lids that give to any face a touch 
of pathos — a touch contradicted at that moment on Thorhilda’s 
face by an evidently half-unconscious smile, which played fitfully 
about her mouth. It was a mouth that was almost childlike in the 
fine roundness of its curves, and yet it was the lower part of the 
face that displayed firmness, decision. The eyes were all gentle- 
ness, all tenderness, in repose. When the lips smiled in conversation 
the eyes smiled too ; and a fascinating piquancy of expression 
would suddenly light up features that had seemed too grave and 
gentle ever to be piquant. The effect was apt to be surprising ; 
but it was always a pleasant surprise, and betrayed the observer to 
admiration, though no such effect had been expected on the one 
side, or certainly intended on the other. Thorhilda was innocent 
of the art of producing effects. That such an art existed was a 
matter of hearsay, and therefore dubious. 

‘ They say that life is like that !’ she had murmured half audibly, 
‘like 

* ** A momentary ray, 

Smiling in a winter’s day. 

’Tis a current’s rapid stream, 

'Tis a shadow, ’tis a dream.’ ’* 

So wrote Francis Quarles, over two hundred years ago ; so others 
have written,’ she went on. ‘ And yet how different one feels ! I 
feel this morning as if life were ages long. I have lived but four- 
and-twenty years, yet I seem to have centuries in my personal 
memory.’ 

Presently definite thought passed on into indefinite. Dreams 
came up out of the past, with reminiscence sad and sunny ; and 
finally came that bright yet questioning mood of which mention 
has been made already, the disposition to ask herself, not ‘ What 
right have I to be happy ?’ but ‘ Why am I so happy ?’ 

Once as she leaned by the edge of the sea-wall, watching the 
gulls float up and down with folded wing and yielding breast upon 
the gently heaving waters, an answer came suddenly. Was it from 


THOR HILDA THEYN. 


3 


the heart, or from the brain only? Though she was alone, she 
blushed, the long eyelashes drooped ; and a little instant, negative 
movement of the head might have been detected had anyone to 
detect it been there. 

‘ No, no ! It is not that, it is not that f she made haste to assure 
herself. ‘I do not feel that he could make happiness of mine. 
No, it is not that 

It was perhaps significant that she did not long continue to dwell 
upon the idea of Percival Meredith. He was a neighbour, the 
owner of Ormston Magna, a place some three miles nearer to the 
sea than Yarburgh ; indeed, from its terraced gardens you could 
look out over the wide expanse of the German Ocean. Percival, 
who was an elderly-looking man if you considered his thirty-four 
summers, lived at Ormston with his mother, a lady who might 
easily have been mistaken for his elder sister. It had been made 
evident for some time to Canon and Mrs. Godfrey that the 
Merediths had especial motives for gladly accepting every invitation 
that was sent to them from the Rectory, and for inviting the in- 
habitants of the Rectory to Ormston on any and every possible 
occasion. Of late Thorhilda had herself discovered the reason of 
all this ; and she was perplexed, pleased, perturbed by turns. Only 
at rare moments was she conscious of any true satisfaction in 
thinking of Percival Meredith and his too evident intentions. 

Yes ; it was certainly significant that at the present moment she 
made haste to put away all thought of him, and went on thinking, 
meditating, on the strong, glad sense of her life and its happiness. 
She was not old enough, or tried enough, to know how on such 
days the mere sense of living is enough for unusual exultation. 

* Bliss was it on that mom to be alive, 

But to be young was very heaven.* 

So wrote Wordsworth ; but he had passed his youth when he 
wrote this. 

Had anyone in Thorhilda^s circle of friends — Gertrude Douglas, 
for instance, who was considered to be her most intimate friend, 
been asked to give a reason for Miss Theyn’s happiness, Gertrude 
would have made answer, * How should she not be happy ?’ 

Her home in the house of her uncle, Canon Godfrey, the Rector 
of Market Yarburgh, was, admittedly, as happy a home as a woman 
could have. The Canon’s wife, Milicent Godfrey, was the sister of 
Thorhilda’s dead mother; and, being a childless woman herself, 
with a passionate love for children, she had done all that might be 
done to make Thorhilda’ s life a life full of all sweetness, all light, 
all good. It was for her niece’s sake that the old Rectory had been 
refurnished, made beautiful with all artistic beauty that fair means 
could command. Indeed, nothing had been left undone that love 
could suggest as better to be done. And Thorhilda, having a keen 
appreciation of the material good of life — too keen, said some of 

1—2 


4 


IN EXCHANGE FOV, A SOUL. 


the friendliest of her friends — was neither unconscious nor un- 
grateful. Therefore what reason for not being happy ? 

Is it true, that old saying, ‘ Every light has its shadow ^ ? 

Scientifically, it must be true, always ; but surely the analogy 
will not bear stretching to meet and to fit this human life in every 
possible phase. We know that it will not, and are happier for the 
knowledge— happier and better. 

But the bright picture of Thorhilda Theyn’s life was not without 
that enhancing touch of depth in the background of it, which gives 
both to colour and light their rightful prominence and effect. 
There had been hours, nay days, when that dark background had 
claimed more of the girl’s life than any foreground object that 
could be put before her for her distraction. 

‘ I must think of these things, Aunt Milicent,’ she had said. 
‘Garlaff Grange is my own home. They are my own people who 
live there.* 

‘No ; there I cannot agree,* Mrs. Godfrey had replied. ‘Your 
mother gave you to me solemnly, prayerfully, when she was dying. 
She entreated me to promise that the Kectory should be your home. 
... I have tried to keep my promise.’ 

The touch of emotion with which these and other sayings were 
uttered was usually conclusive. Thorhilda had no heart to go on 
with arguments presented to her only by an inadequate sense of 
duty. If people so much older and wiser than herself as Canon 
Godfrey and her aunt considered that it was her wisdom to sit 
still, why should she not agree — especially since movement in the 
direction indicated by conscience was so eminently distasteful ? 

And yet from time to time conscience would have its way. Did 
she really do all that it was her duty to do in going to the Grange 
now and then when it was quite convenient to her aunt to drive 
round that way ; in sending presents on birthdays and Christmas 
Days ; in calling occasionally to see how her sister Ehoda was, or 
to inquire after her Aunt Averil ? It was not pleasant for her to 
go there — the reverse of that — and she did not for a moment 
imagine that she gave any pleasure by going. She was saved from all 
illusion on that head. So far as she could remember, her father 
had never once in his life said, ‘ I am glad to see you !’ never, even 
when she was a child, offered her any greeting or parting kiss. 
Once or twice he had shaken hands ; once or twice he had — not at 
all ironically — taken off his hat as the Rectory carriage drove away 
with only Thorhilda in it ; and there had seemed nothing incon- 
gruous in his doing so. 

His daughter knew little of him except what she heard from 
others ; and it was long since she had heard any pleasant thing. 
For years past everything had been going down at Garlaff Grange ; 
and though repeated efforts had been made by Canon Godfrey and 
others to stop the descent, no such efforts had availed, and it was 
long now since Squire Theyn had permitted anything of what he 
termed ‘ interference,’ 


THOR HILDA THEVN. ' 5 

* Ahll ha’ nea mair on’t I’ he had said to his only son, BTartas, on 
one occasion. 

Canon Godfrey had been spending an hour with Squire Theyn 
— spending it mostly in earnest entreaty; and he had left the 
Grange with the Squire’s ‘ words of high disdain ’ ringing in his 
ears painfully. 

‘ Ah’ll ha’ nea mair on’t !’ repeated the old man ; and Hartas 
helped greatly to confirm him in this decision. 

The younger man’s dislike to anything that could touch his 
liberty was at least as strong as the same feeling in the elder one. 
There were some who said that Squire Theyn and his son were not 
unworthy of each other ; and it is possible that the saying had 
more in it than appeared on the surface. Certainly it was* one to 
bear investigation, had any analytically minded person been drawn 
to interest himself in the matter. And a student bent upon 
humanity might have travelled far before finding two more unique 
subjects for his research. 


CHAPTER IL 

▲ NORTH YORKSHIRE FISHER-MAIDEN. 

* She was a careless, fearless girl, 

And made her answer plain, 

Outspoken she to earl or churl, 

Kindhearted in the main.’ 

Cheistina Eossettt. 

Why Thorhilda’s thoughts, as she stood there by the margent of 
the sea, should suddenly be drawn to her brother Hartas she could 
hardly have told in that first moment. She had not been thinking 
of him as she stood, letting the breezes blow upon her forehead, 
turning from watching the wide, white-flecked sea to note the 
fisher folk on the beach and on the quays. She knew nothing of 
any of these save by hearsay, and yet she was aware of something 
prompting her interest in a group of tall, handsome fisher-girls 
who were down by the edge of the tide — such girls as you 
would hardly see anywhere else in England for strength and 
straightness, for roundness of form and bright, fresh healthfulness 
of countenance. 

They wore blue flannel petticoats, and rough, dark-blue masculine- 
looking guernseys of their own knitting. Their heads were either 
bare, or covered with picturesque hoods of cotton — blue, pink, lilac, 
buff, pale blue. One, the tallest of them, and decidedly the 
handsomest, had no bonnet at all, and her rich chestnut hair blew 
about in the breeze in shining rings and curls in a way that attracted 
Thorhilda’s attention, and even her admiration, though as a rule 
she i*dd slight sympathy with the ‘admired disorder* school of 
aesthetics. And as she watched the girl, all at once there darted a 
new thought across her brain, a new and disturbing conviction. 


6 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


‘ That is Barbara Burdas !’ she said to herself. Then she smiled 
a little, and wondered at the force of a feeling that had so far-off 
a cause. 

Miss Theyn knew very little of Barbara Burdas. Though the 
reputation of the handsome fisher-girl was rapidly spreading along 
the coast from Flamborough Head to Hild’s Haven, her name had 
seldom been heard within the walls of the Rectory at Market 
Yarburgh ; but one day Canon Godfrey had spoken in a somewhat 
grieving tone to his wife concerning some new rumour which had 
reached his ear — a story in which both Barbara’s bravery and the 
influence of her beauty were brought into prominence. Mrs. 
Godfrey tried to prevent his sorrow from deepening. 

‘ It will do the girl no harm,’ she said, with her usual somewhat 
emphatic vivacity. ‘ Barbara Burdas is as good a woman as I am, 
and as strong. Think of her life, of all she is doing for her grand- 
father and the children ! Oh, a little admiration won’t harm 
Barbara I It may even be some lightness in her life — some relief ; 
I hope it will. She has not known much pleasure.’ 

Thorhilda being present, Canon Godfrey had made no reply at 
that moment ; but later he had confided to his wife the things that 
he had heard in the parish concerning Barbara Burdas and her own 
nephew, Hartas Theyn. Subsequently some guesses had been made 
by Thorhilda, but they were little more than guesses, arising out 
of a word dropped by her aunt in an unguarded moment. 

Now, seeing Barbara there on the beach, a sudden desire to know 
something of the truth came upon her ; and after a few moments’ 
consideration she left the promenade, and went down between the 
nursemaids and the babies, the donkeys and the Bath-chairs, to 
where the shore was wet and shining, and, for the present, almost 
untrodden. The wind seemed freer, and the sun brighter there by 
the changing edge of the sea. 

Miss Theyn was not a woman to saunter on aimlessly, to wait for 
an opportunity of speaking to Bab alone. She went straight across 
ihe stretch of brown sea-tangle, going directly to the group of 
laughing girls, with that firm nerve and presence which comes 
mostly of good health and right training. The laughter died down 
as she came nearer ; and with apparent courtesy Bab and her 
friends half turned and drew together waitingly. They were not 
unused to conversation with curious strangers. 

Thorhilda was the first to speak. She looked at Bab as she did 
so, and there was involuntary admiration in her look, which Bab 
saw, and did not resent. Yet there was an unconscious touch of 
scorn about the fisher-girl’s mouth, a half -disdain in the inquiring 
glance she fixed upon the lady whose delicate gray silk dress had 
come in contact with the slimy weed and the coarse, brown sand, 
and whose small dainty boots were surely being ruined as they sank 
and slipped among the great drifting fronds that lay heaped upon 
the shale. Thorhilda understood the disdain. 


A NORTH YORKSHIRE F/SHER-MA/DEN. 7 

* Are you not Barbara Burdaa she asked, in her clear yet gentle 
voice, as she drew quite near. 

Bab hesitated a moment, during which her lips compressed them- 
selves firmly, yet without discharging the scorn from the curves at 
the corners. Her gaze was still steady and inquiring. A slight 
tinge of colour crept under the creamy olive of her cheek. 

She was about to reply ; but it was a moment too late. Her 
friend, Nan Tyas, a young fish- wife, almost as tall, almost as hand- 
some as herself, but in a different way, had come to an end of her 
slight store of patience. 

Looking over Bab’s shoulder, her keen dark eyes glittering as she 
stared straight into Miss Theyn’s face, an expression of suspicion 
on every feature, she asked : 

* Whea telled ya her neame ?’ 

This was meant to be facetious, and there was esprit de corps 
enough among the girls to cause it to be received as it was meant. 
A general titter went round, in the midst of which another voice 
found courage to remark : 

‘ Mebbe she kenned it of her oan sharpness.’ 

A second laugh was heard, less restrained than before. 

Thorhilda looked on with interest, but not smilingly, still less 
resentfully. The moment and its experience were new to her. 
Moreover, she discerned that a grave clear look from Bab was 
quelling the tendency to sarcasm. 

‘ Hand yer tongues, ya fools,’ Bab said quietly, but with a certain 
force in the tone of her voice. 

Then she turned to Miss Theyn, the lingering displeasure still 
about her mouth. Speaking with decidedly less of the northern 
accent and intonation than before, she said : 

‘ Yes, Barbara Burdas ; that’s what they call ma. Ah’m noan 
shamed o’ my name. . . . Did ya want anything wi’ me ?’ 

‘ Yes ; I wished to speak to you for awhile. I do not know that 
I have much of importance to say at present ; but I wished to 
know you, to ask you one or two questions. I thought that perhaps 
your friends would permit me to speak to you alone.’ 

A certain power in Miss Theyn’s glance as she looked round upon 
the six or seven young women might have as much to do with their 
compliance as the tone of expectant authority which she in- 
voluntarily used. They smiled satirically to each other ; and then 
went gliding away with the strong easy grace of movement which 
seems their birthright. Thorhilda watched them admiringly for a 
few moments ; then she turned to walk with Bab in the opposite 
direction ; and for a little while there was silence ; but it was not 
at all an awkward silence. Though the moment was not a facile 
one, the elements of awkwardness did not exist for these two, who 
walked there side by side, so near, yet so widely separated. 

Again it was Thorhilda who spoke first. She did so naturally, 
and without constraint. 


8 


IN EXCHANGE FOE A SOUE 


* Thank yon for telling me your name/ she said. ‘ It is only fair 
that I should tell you mine in return ; it is Thorhilda Theyn.’ 

Bab did not quite stay the firm step that was going on over the 
beach ; but Miss Theyn perceived the partial arresting of move- 
ment ; she divined the cause of it ; and she understood the presence 
of mind that gave Bab the power to go on again as if nothing had 
happened. 

‘ Then you’ll live at the Grange/ Bab said, speaking as if even 
curiosity were far from her. 

‘No,’ Thorhilda replied. ‘I live at Market Yarburglf, at the 
Rectory ; but the Grange is my real home.’ 

An’ the Squire is yer father ?’ 

‘ Yes. , . . And Hartas Theyn is my brother.* 

The sun was still shining down with brilliancy upon the blue 
waters of the North Sea, upon the white wavelets that broke gently 
but just below where the two girls were sauntering. A couple of 
sea-gulls were crying softly overhead ; the fishing boats in the 
offing were ploughing their way northward. A light breeze 
fluttered the loops of gray ribbon that fastened Thorhilda’s dress. 
Bab’s attention seemed drawn in rather a marked way to the ribbon. 
Her eyes followed its fluttering as she walked on in silence, but it 
was not of the ribbon that she was thinking. 

Perhaps she was hardly thinking at all in any true sense of the 
word ; yet she was aware of some new and gentle influence that 
was stealing upon her swiftly, awakening an admiration that was 
almost emotion ; subduing the natural pride that was in her ; the 
strong natural independence of her spirit, an independence of which 
she was as utterly unconscious as she was of the ordinary pulsations 
of her heart ; but which was yet one of the dominant traits of her 
nature ; and produced difficulties, perplexities, which she had often 
found bewildering, but never more bewildering than at the present 
moment. Here was one, far above her by birth, by beauty, by 
position, by education, yet possessing a something (Bab did not 
know it to be sympathy) that had the power to charm, to extract 
the bitterness from pain, and the sting from an unacknowledged 
dread. Bab hesitated some time, sighing as she repressed one 
impulse after another toward unsuitable speech. The right words 
would not come. At last came some awkward ones. 

‘ If ya’ve anything to saay. Miss Theyn, ya’d better say it/ the 
girl remarked, decidedly more in the tone of one urging blame than 
deprecating it. 

‘ It is evident that you have nothing to fear,’ Thorhilda replied, 
turning to look into the proud yet winning face so near her own. 

‘ Fear I’ exclaimed Bab, a great scorn flashing in her eyes and on 
her lips. ‘ Fear ! what would / ha’ to fear, think ya ? If ya dream 
that I’m feared o’ yon brother o* yours, or of ony mischief he can 
bring aboot for me, ya can put away the notion without a second 
thowt. It’s as big a mistake as you’ve ever made. Fear I I’m 


A NORTH YORKSHIRE FISHER-MAIDEN 


9 


noan feared of him. . . . Noa ! . , . But Ah know what it is, 
Miss Theyn. I know whafs brought you here ; you've feared for 
him — for your brother ! YouVe feared he's goin’ to disgrace 
hisself, an’ you, wi' marryin’ a flither’^-picker. Don’t hev no fear 
o’ that sort, Miss Theyn 1’ And here even Bab’s voice grew fainter 
as her breathing became overpowered by betraying emotion. ‘ Don’t 
hev no fear o’ that sort. I’ll • • • well, I’ll let ya know when he’s 
i’ daanger 1’ 

It was evident that Bab had not intended to end her speech 
thus ; and other things more important were evident also. Thor- 
hilda’s experience had not been wide, but she had her woman’s 
instincts to guide her, and her instinct told her plainly that Bab’s 
emotion could only have one cause. This and other new knowledge 
complicated the feeling which had brought Miss Theyn to saunter 
there, in the very middle of Ulvstan Bight, with Barbara Burdas. 

Other complications were at hand. Thorhilda herself hardly 
knew what drew her to notice that Bab’s perturbation had suddenly 
and greatly increased, but instantly her eyes followed the direction 
of her companion’s eyes, and almost to her distress she saw that the 
figure advancing rapidly toward them over the beach was the figure 
of her brother Hartas, Thorhilda’s exclamation of concern did not 
escape Bab’s notice. 


CHAPTER IIL 

ULVSTAN BIGHT. 

• For hast thou not a herald on my cheek, 

To tell the coming nearer of thy ways, 

And in my veins a stronger blood that flows, 

A bell that strikes on pulses of my heart, 

Submissive life that proudly comes and goes 
Through eyes that bum, and speechless lips that part ? 

And hast thou not a hidden life in mine, 

In thee a soul which none may know for thine ?* 

Mark Andr^ Rafpalovitch, 

Hartas Theyn was coming down the beach slowly, yet with more 
intentness in his deliberate gait than was usually to be observed. 
He had seen from the road by the Forecliff that the lady who was 
walking with Barbara Burdas was none other than his elder sister. 

Thorhilda consciously repressed all outward sign as she watched 
his approach ; her face did not betray the sadness she felt as she 
noted his slouching air — his shabby, shapeless clothing. The very 
hat he wore, an old gray felt, seemed to betray what manner of 
man its wearer had come to be ; and as ho came nearer, his hands 
in the pockets of his trousers, a pipe between his lips, a sullen, 
defiant, yet questioning look in the depths of his dark eyes, a touch 
of something that was almost dread entered into her feeling. It 

* Flithers= limpets, used for bait. 


10 


IN EXCHANGE FOE A SOUL. 


was but momentary, this strange emotion ; and she offered her 
greeting without more restraint than was usual between them. 

‘ You did not expect to see me here, Hartas ?’ she said pleasantly. 

‘ No, I didn’t,’ replied the young man, after half a minute’s 
irritating silence. ‘ An’ if I’m to tell the truth, 1 don’t know ’at 
I’d any particular wish to see you.’ 

And his eyes flashed a little, as if conscious of a certain amount 
of daring in his speech. 

If this daring were ventured upon for Bab’s sake, or because of 
her presence there, it was a mistake ; but this Hartas had not dis- 
cernment enough to perceive. Bab was looking on with interest, 
but she repressed all tendency to smile. 

Thorhilda replied instantly and easily. 

‘ That is not polite, Hartas,’ she said. * But let it pass. I did 
not come here to irritate you. And ’ 

‘ Could you say what you did come for ?’ interrupted Hartas, 
with a certain coarse sharpness in his tone. 

‘Beadily. I came down to make the acquaintance of Barbara 
Burdas. I wished to know her ; I had wished it for some time. 
So far, I am glad I did come. Don’t try to make me regret it.’ 

‘ I don’t spend my breath in such efforts as them, as a rule,’ re- 
joined the young man, taking his pipe from his mouth, and speaking 
with evident strong effort to restrain himself. ‘ But have a care I 
I don’t force myself upon your friends.’ 

‘ True,’ said Thorhilda ; and again, before she could find the 
word she wished to use, the opportunity was taken from her. 

‘ D’ya want yer sister to think she’s forced herself upon a friend 
o’ yours ?’ Bab asked, still seeming as if she tried to restrain the 
sarcastic smile that appeared to play about her lips almost cease- 
lessly. Hartas Theyn’s manner changed instantly in replying to 
Bab. It was as if the better nature within him asserted itself all 
at once ; his higher manhood responded to her slightest touch. 

‘ I don’t want no quarrellin’,’ he replied, speaking with a mildness 
and softness so new to him that even his sister discerned it with 
an infinite surprise. ‘ I don’t want no quarrellin’, an’ it’s only fair 
to expect that if I keep away fra ihenij as I always hev done ’ [this 
with an unmitigated scorn], ‘they’U hev the goodness to keep away 
fra me. Friends o’ that sort ’s best separated ; so I’ve heard teil 
afore to-day.’ 

Then, warming with bis own eloquence, Hartas turned again to 
Thorhilda, saying emphatically : 

‘ I mean no harm ; an’ as I said just now, I want no quarrellin ; 
but if you want to keep out o’ mischief, keep away fra me an 
from all interference in my affairs. I can manage them for myself 
thank ya all the same.’ 

Thorhilda hesitated a moment, recognising the effort Hartas had 
made, and also the element of fairness in his words, yet it was 
inevitable that other thoughts should force themselves upon her. 


ULVSTAN BIGHT. 


II 


* Hartas, do you remember that you are my brother ?’ she asked 
after a moment of swift, deep thinking. 

‘ An’ what o’ that ? It’s neither your fault nor mine.’ 

‘ No ; it is no one’s fault ; but it is a fact, a fact that means much, 
and, for me, involves much. If I could forget it I should be — well, 
something I hope I am not. Fortunately for me I cannot forget 
it ; more fortunately still, I cannot altogether ignore it. I cannot 
let you and your life’s deepest affairs pass by me as if no tie existed. 
... I do not wish to forget or to ignore. Why should you 
wish it ?’ 

‘ Because I’m made of a different sort o’ stuff — a commoner sort, 
if you will ; an’ because I’m cast in a different mould. Say what 
you like, it isn’t easy for you to look down — fool as I am I can see 
as much as that. But, take my word fm* i% it isn't any easier for me 
to look up. An’ why should either you or me strive to look up or 
down against the grain ? Because the world expects it ! Then 
let it expect. I’m good at disappointin’ expectations o’ that sort. 
We’re better apart, an' you know it /' Then turning away, a little 
excited, a little angry, disquieted by nervous perturbations of 
various kinds, he lifted his eyes to discern the approach of influences 
yet more disturbing to him than any he had encountered that 
luckless morning. And yet it was only two ladies who were 
approaching, two elderly and, more or less, elegantly dressed ladies. 
Hartas instantly divined that they were his aunts in search of 
Thorhilda. 

‘ Heaven help us !’ he exclaimed. ‘ Here’s two more of ’em ! 
Bab, let’s fly. There’s the cave !’ 

‘ Me fly !’ Bab exclaimed indignantly. ‘ It will be the first time !’ 
And as she stood watching the two ladies advancing slowly over the 
slimy, slippery stones and tangle, again the half-satirical smile 
gathered about her mouth. Hartas watched her face with admira- 
tion expressed on every feature of his own ; and Thorhilda stood, 
controlling the fear of a scene that was mingled with her ex- 
pectancy. Mrs. Godfrey, the Canon’s stately and still beautiful 
wife ; Mrs. Kerne, the sister of Squire Theyne, an elderly and 
rugged-featured woman, the widow of: a rich shipowner, had not 
much in common ; and therefore, very wisely, seldom sought each 
other’s society. There certainly seemed to be something strange 
in the fact of their leaving the wide sea-wall together, and coming 
down over the wet unstable beach. Besides, there was that in the 
expression of one of them that was at least ominous. 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


1 % 


CHAPTER IV. 

SQUIRE THEYN'S SISTER, AND SOME OTHERS, 

• O how this spring of love resembleth 
The uncertain glory of an April day ; 

Which now shows all the beauty of the sun 
And by-and-by a cloud takes all away/ 

SSAKESPEARB. 

‘Think again, Bab,’ Hartas whispered to the only quite self- 
possessed one of the waiting three. ‘ Think again ! There’s the 
Pirate’s Hole !’ 

‘ Go into it, if you’re frightened,’ replied Bab curtly. 

Hartas was silenced ; but the unpleasant anticipation of the 
moment was not done away. He smoked on more vigorously than 
before. Thorhilda uttered some small nothing to Bab, and then 
turned to meet the two approaching figures. To her comfort her 
Aunt Milicent’s face was the face it usually was— beautiful, kind, 
smiling ; free from all disfigurement of untoward expression. 
She was not a woman to mar any influence she might have by un- 
controlled feminine petulance. 

‘ Well !’ she said cheerfully to Thorhilda. ‘ I thought you were 
to wait for me on the promenade, dear ! But how lovely this is ! 
How breezy ! — And there is Hartas ! I haven’t seem him for an 
age. . . . Hartas — how do you do ? And how are you all at the 
Grange ? We were thinking of driving round that way, but now 
we needn’t. . . . All quite well ? Delightful ! But, of course, 
that doesn’t include your poor Aunt Averil. How I should like to 
hear for once that she was quite well !’ 

So Mrs. Godfrey ran on in her easy, woman-of -the- world way ; 
glancing at Barbara Burdas, understanding, feeling acutely, all the 
incongruity of the elements that made up the surrounding 
atmosphere ; knowing herself to be ten times less distressed than 
Mrs. Kerne, who stood by her side, yet not too near— silent, hard, 
stern, disapproving to the uttermost. And yet Mrs. Godfrey’s 
social nerves should surely have been as keenly sensitive as those 
of Squire Theyn’s sister. All the world knew of the upbringing 
of the latter in a household where a fox-hunting mother had been 
the only feminine influence ; and a seldom sober squire, with his 
like-minded brother, the ruling masculine powers. There had 
only been one son, the present Squire Theyn ; and only one 
daughter, the present Mrs. Kerne ; who had attained the height of 
her ambition in marrying a rich and vulgar man. The rich man 
was dead ; his widow was a rich woman ; and none the more 
pleasing because during a dozen years of companionship she had 
managed to add some of her husband’s coarsenesses and vulgarities 
to her own innate ones. The force of natural assimilation was never 
more clearly proved. 


SQUIRE THEYN^S SISTER, AND SOME OTHERS. 13 

Mrs. Godfrey’s early recollections were of a different order. She 
was one of the five daughters of the Eector of Luneworth, a small 
village in a midland county — a village where a kindly duke and 
duchess had reigned supreme, making much of the Sector’s pretty 
children, and affording them many advantages as they grew up 
which could not otherwise have been obtained. As all the neigh- 
bourhood knew, the Miss Chalgroves had shared the lessons that 
masters came down from London to give to the Ladies Haddingley. 
And, later in life, some of the Rector’s daughters had made a first 
social appearance on the same evening, and in the same place, as 
some of their more favoured friends. And they were truly friends, 
who had remained friendly — much to Milicent Godfrey’s permanent 
good, pleasure, and satisfaction — much to her sister Averil’s 
deterioration. Averil had been the eldest of them all — a clever, 
fretful, nervous woman, who had all her life magnified her slight 
ailments into illnesses, and who had condescended to share her 
sister Grace’s home when the latter married Squire Theyn, with an 
inexpressible disgust. That her sister Milicent had never offered 
her a couple of rooms at the Rectory at Market Yarburgh remained 
a standing cause for bitterness. It was not likely to be removed 
BO long as Mrs. Godfrey should care for her husband’s peace of 
mind. 

It was the quick sight of Mrs. Kerne, the Squire^s widowed sister, 
that had discerned the group upon the beach. She had met Mrs. 
Godfrey at the turn leading down to the promenade, accepted her 
invitation to walk with her to meet Thorhilda with an indifference 
that was more than merely ungraciousness, and when they found 
that Thorhilda had left the promenade, her instinct led her to 
express her shallow satisfaction in somewhat irritating speech. 
Peering round above the rim of her gold eye-glass, she exclaimed 
at last : 

‘ There is Miss Theyn ! — there is your niece /’ — speaking as if she 
herself were no relation whatever. ‘What can have led her to 
seek the society of fish-wives, I wonder ? . . . Ah, I see ! Master 
Hartas is there. That accounts. But I did not know that the 
brother and sister were on such affectionate terms as to induce her 
to lend her distinguished countenance to such as Bab liurdas for 
his sake. Dear me I What a new departure !’ 

Mrs. Kerne was a short, stout woman, moving with the ungainly 
movement natural to her age and proportions. Her red face grew 
redder as she descended the narrow, unsavoury road that led to 
the beach, and her usually un amiable expression did not grow more 
amiable. By the time she had arrived at the point when it was 
necessary to shake hands with Thorhilda she had — perhaps unaware, 
poor woman ! — acquired a most forbidding aspect. ThorhiMa 
shrank, as from a coming blow ; but this was only for a second ; 
her larger nature conquered, and she stood considerate, courageous. 

The infiuence of Barbara Burdas alone held Hartas Theyn to 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


H 

the spot of wet, weed-strewn sand on which he stood, his pipe still 
in his mouth, his big, unkept brown hands still in the pockets of 
his trousers. The mere sight of him seemed to awaken the ire of 
Mrs. Kerne. That he should stand there before her, calmly 
smoking, with Barbara Burdas by his side, was too much for the 
small amount of equanimity at her disposal. No description made 
by means of pen or pencil could do justice to the expression of her 
face as she broke the brief silence, sniffing the air as she did so as 
an ill-tempered horse sniffs it at the beginning of the mischief he 
has it in his head to bring about. 

‘ I can’t say that I see exactly why IVe been brought down here,’ 
she remarked, glancing from her mece to her even less favoured 
nephew. ‘ What is the meaning of it ? An’ why are you standing 
there, Hartas, looking more like a fool than usual, if that’s 
possible ? , . . T suppose the truth is I’ve been tricked I brought 
down here to be introduced to your ’ 

‘ Stop a minute,’ Hartas interposed, at last taking the pipe from 
between his lips, putting it behind him, and letting his dark eyes 
flash their fullest power upon Mrs. Kerne. ‘ Stop a minute,’ he 
said. ‘ If you’ve been brought down here, it’s been by no will o’ 
mine. I haven’t seen you this year past, and wouldn’t ha’ minded 
if I hadn’t seen you for years to come. . . . All the same, say what 
you’ve got to say to me, but take my advice for once, leave other 
folks alone — especially folks ’at’s never me’lled wi’ you.’ 

‘ It isn’t much I’ve got to say to you,’ Mrs. Kerne replied, the 
angry colour deepening on her face as she spoke, and a keen light 
darting from her small eyes. ‘ It isn’t much I’ve got to say ; an’ 
first I may as well just thank you for your plain speaking. I’ll not 
forget it ! You may have cause to remember it yourself, sooner or 
later. It ’ill not be the first time ’at the readiness of your tongue 
has had to do with the emptiness of your pocket.’ 

‘ Mebbe not,’ interrupted Hartas. ‘ I’d as soon my pockets were 
empty as try to fill ’em wi’ toadyin’ rich relations .... Most 
things has their price.’ 

‘I’m glad you’ve found that out,’ replied Mrs. Kerne. ‘But 
you’ve more to learn yet, if all be true ’at one hears an’ sees. 
However, as you say, perhaps I’d better leave you to go to ruin by 
your own road. You’ve been tra veilin’ on it a good bit now, by all 
accounts, an’ from the very first I’ve felt that tryin’ to stop you 
would be like tryin’ to stop a thunderbolt.’ 

‘Just like that ; an’ about as much of a mistake,’ said Hartas, 
with an irritating attempt to seem cool. But the effort was 
obvious, and Thorhilda, who discerned all too plainly whither 
these amenities were likely to lead, turning to her brother, said 
gently : 

‘ Hartas, it is my fault that this has happened. I couldn’t foresee 
it, of course. But let us put an end to it. Aunt Katherine will 
take cold if she remains here on the wet beach any longer ; and we 


SQUIRE THEYN^S SISTER, AND SOME OTHERS. 15 

are going home — Aunt Milicent and myself. Hadn’t you better go 
too ? And shall you be at the Grange to-morrow, in the afternoon ? 
I want to see you. Don’t refuse me, Hartas ; I don’t often ask 
favours of you.* 

It was strange how Thorhilda*s voice, speaking gently, kindly, 
quietly, seemed to change the elements of that untoward atmo- 
sphere. Mrs. Kerne’s countenance relaxed all unconsciously ; Mrs. 
Godfrey smiled, and turned with a pleasant word to Barbara 
Burdas, who had been standing there during those brief moments, 
silent, wondering, perplexed, and not a little saddened. Bab knew 
nothing of Tennyson, but the spirit of one of the poet’s verses was 
rankling in her heart — 

* If this be high, what is it to be low 

Bab could not put the inquiry in these words, but in her own way, 
and of her own self, she asked the question ; and later, in her own 
home, it came back upon her with fuller force than ever. Was 
this the surrounding of the man who had seemed to step down 
from some higher place, to condescend in speaking to her, to seem 
as if he stood on the verge of ruin in making known to her his deep 
and passionate affection ? Bab understood much, more even than 
she knew that she understood, but naturally, from her social stand- 
point, there was a good deal that was confusing to her. Hitherto 
she had not cared to know of any dividing lines there might be in 
ranks above her own, and though discernment had seldom failed 
her in such cases of pretension as she had come across, she yet had 
no knowledge of the great gulfs that are fixed between class and 
class, and are only now and then bridged over by bridges of gold. 
But ignorant as she might be, she had yet discerned, instantly and 
instinctively, that Mrs. Godfrey and Miss Theyn were at least as 
far above Hartas as Hartas was above herself, and that the lines 
on which Mrs. Kerne’s life was laid down were more familiar to 
him, and, in a certain sense, more consonant, than the lines of the 
two other lives into which Bab had had so mere a glimpse. Yet 
brief as the insight had been, it had developed an infinitude of 
suggestive ideas ; and it was significant that Bab’s thought was 
drawn to dwell mainly upon the gentler, the higher phase of the 
humanity presented to her in those few moments. Naturally, her 
thinking and wondering was of a vague and inexact order, but it 
was not without its influence, for she recognised clearly that the 
hour of her meeting with Miss Theyn was the most striking land- 
mark of her hitherto uneventful history. 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


i6 


CHAPTER V. 

ON THE FORECLIFP. 

• Whither away, Delight ? 

Thoa earnest but now ; wilt thou so soon depart^ 

And give me up to-night ? 

For weeks of lingering pain and smart, 

But one half-hour of comfort for my heart !* 

George Herbert. 

‘ Yes ; Pm glad to have seen them/ Bab said to herself, as she 
stood alone at the door of her grandfather’s cottage at night. 

The children were all in bed, little Stevie with his grandfather, 
Jack and Zeb in another bed in the far corner of the attic. Ailsie 
was in Bab’s room, down below, a little square, dark place, with 
only room for a bed and a chair and the box in which Bab kept her 
‘ Sunday things ’ — her own and Ailsie’s, and the latter were more 
than the former. Few things pleased Bab more than to be able to 
buy some bit of bright ribbon for Ailsie’s hat, or a kerchief for 
Ailsie’s neck. No child on the Forecliff was more warmly and 
prettily clad than Ailsie Burdas. 

It was moonlight now, the tide was half high, and the bay was 
filled from point to point with the sparkling of the silent silver sea. 
There were a few fishing-cobles in the ofi&ng, two or three more 
were landing, making a picturesque group of dark, moving outlines 
upon the white margin of the waters. Bab was no artist, no poet, 
but something of the poet temperament there was in the girl, and 
that something was heightened at the present moment by the 
emotion she was contending against, striving to hide its intensity 
even from her own self. Bab had never acknowledged, even in her 
inmost thought, that there was any possibility of Hartas Theyn 
winning from her a return of the affection he professed so passion- 
ately. Rather was she conscious of that spirit of rebellion which 
so often dawns with a dawning love, the spirit of fear, of shrinking 
reluctance. 

Hitherto the thought of becoming the wife of a man whose posi- 
tion in life was superior to her own had held but little temptation 
for her. She was not dazzled by the knowledge of Hartas Theyn’s 
higher standing, of his better birth, of his reputed wealth. She 
would have been glad to exchange her life for one that offered 
greater freedom from care, greater ease, more ability to procure 
for herself and those belonging to her some of the things that were 
now counted as luxuries not to be thought of ; but she had never 
been prepared to sacrifice herself too completely for such advan- 
tages as these. She was young and strong, and as willing to work 
as she was able. Why, then, should she dream of purchasing at a 
great price the things she did not very greatly desire to have ? 

But now to-night other thoughts came across her as she stood 


ON THE FORECLIFF. 


«7 


there, other visions filled her brain, vague visions of a gentler and 
more beautiful life — a life far from all roughness and rudeness — in 
a word, the life that might be lived by the woman to whom Miss 
Theyn would say, ‘ My sister P 

‘ My sister T Bab had said the words to herself ; then she uttered 
them half audibly, with a thrill like that of the lover who first says 
to himself, ‘ My wife.’ 

Could Thorhilda Theyn have known it all, could she have looked 
but one moment into Bab’s heart and brain as the girl stood there 
by the cottage door, feeling almost as if her very breathing were 
restrained by the force of the new vision, the compelling touch of the 
new affection, surely for very humility Miss Theyn would have been 
sad at heart. It was well for her peace that she might not know. 

Bab had never before come into contact with any woman of such 
winning grace, such refined loveliness ; never before had she been 
moved by such attractive gentleness. And there was something 
more than these — a mystic and far-off something that drew the 
untrained fisher-girl with a strong and strange fascination, a fasci- 
nation that she could neither understand nor resist. 

‘ I’d lay my life down for her,’ she said, blushing as she spoke 
for the warmth of her own word, though no one was by to hear it, 
or to hold her in contempt for evermore for having used it. The 
blush was the sign of her heart’s inexperience. 

Thinking thus of Miss Theyn, it was not wonderful that softened 
thoughts of Miss Theyn’s brother should come ; that his humility 
of manner to herself should appear in a new and more attractive 
light ; that the remembrance of his affection should have more 
force to touch her own ; that his oft-repeated assurance of life-long 
protection and unfailing devotion should appeal more strongly to 
her imagination. Ah, what a dream it was ! how bright ! how 
sweet 1 how possible ! but, alas, how very brief ! 

Bab would not look at the ending of the dream : she put it away 
resolutely. Some day she would be compelled to look at it, but 
not to-night, not to-night. It was as if she herself were pleading 
with herself for a little good, a little beauty, a little softness, a 
little ease. Some day she might have to pay the price for the 
dream. Well, let the demand be made, and she would honour it — 
for Miss Theyn’s sake she would honour it, though it cost all that 
she had, to the last limit. 

‘ T es. I’d do that ; I’d lay down my life if so ’twere to be that 
she needed it 1’ Bab repeated, still standing there, watching the 
dark, picturesque grouping of the men and boats upon the silver of 
the beach, the swiftly-changing lights and shadows seeming to 
correspond with the changes of her own thought and emotion. 

Presently a voice broke upon the silence, not roughly or rudely, 
yet with a strangely jarring effect upon her present mood, an effect 
that was for the instant almost as the first rising of anger. No 
intrusion could have been more unwelcome. 


2 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


iS 


CHAPTER YI. 

‘above the sound of the sea/ 

‘ “ Jessie, Jessie Cameron, 

Hear me but this once,” quoth he, 

“ Good luck go with you, neighbour’s son, 

But I’m no mate for you,” quoth she. 

Day was verging toward the night, 

There beside the moaning sea, 

Dimness overtook the light, 

There where the breakers be. 

•* 0 Jessie, Jessie Cameron, 

I have loved you long and true.” 

•• Good luck go with you, neighbour's son, 

But I’m no mate for you.” ’ 

Christina Eossetti. 

The voice was the voice of David Andoe, the brother of Nam 
Tyas, a brave, strong, young fisherman, with that slow solemnity of 
speech and movement which seems always to have been won out of 
the moments of strife with death and danger. David was not 
surprised to find Bab standing there, though it was nearly mid- 
night and the world about her was all asleep. Like others of his 
craft, he was used to the keeping of untimely hours. 

No, he had no surprise ; but an unusual sense of satisfaction came 
upon him, almost overpowering him for the moment. 

‘ Waitin’ for daaylight, Bab ?’ he asked, stopping near the door of 
the cottage and resting upon the ground the end of an oar which he 
was carrying homeward for repairs. It looked like a lance as it 
stood edgewise in the moonlight ; and he who carried it might 
certainly have passed for a young knight of an older time had his 
dress been other than the knitted blue guernsey and the slouching 
sou’wester of the north coast. There was little difference between 
Bab’s guernsey and his own ; his was knitted in a pattern of broad 
stripes, hers in a fine ‘honey-comb’ — the shape was the same 
precisely. 

Bab replied to his question with discouraging carelessness. 

* No,’ she said ; I’ll get a good sleep in yet afore the sun’s above 
the sea. I’m bound to be at the hither-beds afore five o’clock. . . 
What hev ya got this tide? Not much to boast about, Ah 
reckon.’ 

‘ No,’ David replied, half sadly. ‘ It strikes me ’at it’ll be a good 
while afore anybody hereabouts has aught to boast on again. If 
you could put a stop to the trawlers to-night, it ’ud take years to 
fill the sea as full o’ fish as it was afore them devil’s instriments 
was invented.’ 

‘ The devil has nought to do wi’ them,’ said Bab, perhaps taking 
a wider outlook for contradiction’s sake. ‘There’s more i’ the 
heaven’s above, and i’ the e’th beneath, an’ i’ the waters under the 
e’th, than such as you an’ me knows on, . , . Let ’em be wi’ their 


^ ABOVE TEE SOUND OF THE SEA: 19 

trawlers, an’ their steam fishin’ yawls, an’ all the rest of it. D’ya 
think they can alter the ways of Providence ? Let ’em be !’ 

David was silenced for a moment, not feeling quite sure in his 
own mind that this hopeful philosophy was being countenanced by 
actual circumstance. Yet for him, as for Bab, there would have 
been immense, almost insuperable difficulty in trying to set aside, 
or ignore, the old, tried belief in the wisdom of the ways of Provi- 
dence. In this, they were happy, in having been trained from 
childhood to at least reverence for a creed that held the Fatherhood 
of God, the Brotherhood of Christ, as facts that none might dis- 
believe save to his soul’s imperilling. Though no intimate spiritual 
influence had yet been theirs to draw them to attempt any spiritual 
life of their own, they were yet aware that such a life might be 
lived ; and David’s inner experience had not been so colourless as 
some of his more fervid mates imagined. 

But, like most of his class, he was not given to wear his heart 
upon his sleeve. 

His life, generally, had much in it of which the little world about 
him was only very dimly aware. He was one of a rather large 
family. The father was not a sober man ; the mother was an ill- 
tempered woman, dirty withal, and intolerably selfish ; caring 
nothing for the comfort or well-being of her family so that she 
might sit the long day through upon the doorstep of her cottage, 
idle, half-clad, and almost repulsive in her personal untidiness. 
Yet is it strange to confess that David could never rid himself of 
the old affection for her, the old yearning for her that had so beset 
him when he was a little lad, suffering keenly from her cruel 
humours, yet suffering silently and always forgivingly ? He had 
loved his mother and worked for her, and taken thought for, her 
when there was no one else ; but he knew that his mother loved 
not him. 

Then naturally, almost inevitably, the affectionateness of his 
whole strong affectionate nature had gathered itself together in 
another love — a deeper and more yearning and more passionate 
love ; but, so far, this had seemed to give no sign, save in the keen 
and ceaseless aching of his heart. No lonely woman ever suffered a 
lonelier life, or was ever more sensitive to the lightest touch of 
alleviation. 

At the present moment not even Bab herself knew the tremulous 
way in which one instinct was fighting against another within him. 

‘ Go home now ; leave this preoccupied and unimpressionable 
girl till a more favourable moment.’ So spoke the instinct of 
common sense. But another and a stronger instinct was there — 
too strong to utter itself in words. It was by the depth of its 
silence that he was influenced ; and he made a mistake, and he 
stayed. ; 

‘It’s all very well to talk i’ that way, Bab,’ he said at last, 
answering her word as if no other thought had intervened. ‘ But 

2-2 


20 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


when one thinks o’ what Ulvstan Bight was nobbut twenty years 
agone, an’ what it is now, one can’t but feel half maddened. Why, 
there isn’t a fifth part o’ the fish browt into the bay ’at used to be 
browt in. It isnH there to be catched; how can it, wi’ the spawn 
lyin’ killed at the bottom o’ the sea, mashed wi’ the trawl-beam as 
completely as a railway train ’ud mash a basket of eggs ?’ 

‘ They tell me, them ’at knows, ’at the spawn doesn’t lie at the 
sea -bottom. It floats on the top.’ 

‘ That’s true of a few sorts,’ said David, half glad that the girl 
should reply to him at all ; yet suspecting an allusion to one whom 
he hated with a hate proportionate to his love for Bab. '* It’s true 
of a few sorts ; but it isn’t true o’ the sorts we depend upon for a 
livin’. I’ve had proof anuff o’ that ; an’ so hes my father. Why, 
he was sayin’ nobbut yesterday ’at he’d browt into Ulvstan as many 
as thirteen hundred big fish at a single catch. But he’ll never do it 
again — no, nor no other man.’ 

‘ The last season warn’t such a bad season for herrin’s,’ said Bab, 
still speaking in a conciliatory, but only half -interested way. 
David Andoe was roused even more than before. 

‘ Herrin’s I’ he exclaimed. ‘ There’s nowt like the number 
catched nowadays ’at used to be. Why, I’ve known mysel’ a single 
boat to take eighteen lasts at a catch ; an’ sell ’em for ten pound a 
last.* An’ ’twas a reg’lar thing wiv us, when Ah was a lad, te 
fetch in four or five lasts of a mornin’. Now you may go till 
you’re gray-headed, an’ you’ll not do it. An’ ’ (here David’s voice 
changed and softened, and betrayed him to his own great pain), 
‘ an’ it’s moan ’at Ah care so much for money, Bab, nut on my oan 
account. Thou knows that I Thou knows well anufE why Ah’d be 
fain to see things as they once was, when every man ’at chose to 
work could live by his work, whether on land or sea. Ah’m naught 
at landwork mysel’, nut havin’ been bred to it ; or Ah’d soon try 
an’ see whether Ah couldn’t mak’ better addlins nor Ah can noo. . 
. . An’ it’s that keeps ma back ; an’ hinders ma fra speakin’ when 
my heart’s achin to saay a word.’ 

‘ Then donH say it, David I’ protested Bab eagerly ; and the tone 
of her voice attested to the uttermost her sincerity of appeal. 

* I mun saay it,’ David replied passionately. ‘ Tho’ Ah can’t bard 
the notion o’ askin’ to leave thy gran’father’s home, wi’ never 
another home ready for thee to go to. But I’d try to mak’ one 
ready, Bab ; I’d try all I could to mak’ thee a better one I For it 
breaks my heart to see thee workin* an’ toilin’ like ony slave. Ay, 
it is bad to bear, when Ah’d work mysel’ te skin an’ bone te save 
thee. But what can Ah do when neet after neet we toil an’ moil, 
an’ come back i’ the mornin’ wi’ barely anuff te pay for the oil i’ 
the lamp, let alone for the bait, or the wear an’ tear o’ the lines an’ 

* A last consists of ten thousand herrings ; but a hundred and twenty-four 
is counted to each hundred. At Yarmouth they count (or used to do so) one 
hundred and thirty- two. 


ABOVE THE SOUND OF THE SEA.^ 


21 


nets ? What can Ah do ? An’ all the while me fearin’ ’at some- 
body else— an’ that somebody none so worthy — ’ll step in, an’ spoil 
my life for me. . . . Bab, doesn’t thee care for me a little ? An’ 
me sa troubled wi’ carin’ for thee ! It takes the life out o’ me , 
because there’s nought else, no, nought nowheres. An’ what is the 
good o’ life to a man if there’s noan to care so as how he lives it ? 
Noan to see whether the misery on it’s more nor he can bear ; noan 
to help him i’ the bearin’ ; noan to say “Well done!” when he’s got 
the victory ; an’ noan to speak a word o’ comfort when he falls to the 
ground? What’s the good o’ life when one hes te live it like that ?’ 

‘ You might as well say, “What’s the good o’ life at all ?” if ya 
put it so,’ Bab replied, sadly and gravely. The visions of the past 
half-hour had not been all illumined by the sun. 

‘ I hope I’d never be bold enough i’ the wickedness to saay tJiatr 
David replied. ‘ Still it’s often been forced in upon me ’at if folks 
miss the happiness o’ life at the beginning they don’t easily o’ertake 
it after. Ah don’t know ’at Ah’m so keen set o’ hevin’ a happy 
life ; still — Ah may say it to thee, Bab — Ah'm doled mUery^ the 
misery ’at sits at a man’s fireside, an’ dulls the lowe o’ the coal, an’ 
taints the tast ov his every bite and sup, no matter how good it be 1 
Eh, but Ah am doled o’ misery o’ that sort, Bab ; an’ o’ some other 
sorts. Thee doesn’t know the wretchedness of havin’ every word — 
the gentlest ya can utter, replied to wiv a snap o’ the tongue, an’ a 
toss o’ the head, an’ a rasp o’ the voice ’at silences ya like a blow 
frev a hammer, an’ makes the heart i’ yor body sink as if a stone 
had been dropped te the middle on’t ; an’ all the while the soul 
within ya achin’, an’ achin’, an’ achin’ for the sound of a kindly 
word till ya’re fit to lay doon yer life wi’ the longin’. An’ it’s npt 
for so many days an’ weeks ya ha’ to bear it — no, nor not for so 
many months an’ years — xt'e yer life ^afs goin\ . . . But, eh, me, 
what an Ah saying ? Thou knows nought o’ life o’ that kind, Bab, 
an’ thou shall never know, so it be that Ah hev my waay. It all 
depends on thysel’ ! . . . Doesn’t thee care for me a little, nobbut 
a little, just anuff to lead thee to promise me to wait a bit ? 
Things’ll be better by-an’-by ; and there’ll be two on us to fight 
instead o’ only thyself. Can’t thee saay a word ? 

Bab had listened quite silently ; but not without strougly- 
repressed emotion. The emotion evident in David Andoe had 
alone been sufficient to awaken her own ; and there was more 
behind. Bab’s first girlish though of love and marriage had been 
bound up with the thought of David. Many a morning he had 
helped her to fill her flither- basket out of the rocks at the foot of 
Yarva-Ness ; many a time he had helped her to bring up the lines 
from her grandfather’s boat, or rather the boat in which her 
grandfather had a single share ; many a time he had helped to 
shorten her daily task of mussel-scaling. Of late Bab had not 
accepted his help, but this had not greatly distressed him. The 
meaning of her refusal might not be so untoward as, on the surface 


22 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUE 


of it, it seemed to be. And Bab quite understood. Long ago she 
had discerned the patience in the man, his faithfulness, his power 
of loving and suffering in silence ; and long ago, at least it seemed 
long to her now, she had desired to say something that should 
relieve her own soul from the burden of seeming to encourage 
attentions she might never accept as they were meant to be 
accepted. 

She knew now that it was not love that was in her heart when 
she thought of David Andoe, and by consequence his love for her 
was as a weight that she was fain to put away. Here at last was 
an opportunity. 

‘Can’t thee say a word, Bab? David had pled in the gentle, 
humble tones of true lovingness. 

‘ I’m feared I’ve nought to say ’at you’d care to hear,’ Bab replied 
quietly, and as she spoke a light yet chill breeze came up from the 
sea, making a stir that seemed to cover a little the nakedness of 
speech. ‘I’m noan thinkin’ o’ changin’ ! nut i’ noa waay. I’d 
never leave the childer, still less could I leave my gran’father. 
Noa, I’ll never change.’ 

‘Ah’d niver ask thee to change,’ David made haste to reply. 
‘ Ah’ve thowt it all oot lang sen ; an’ Ah can see no reason why we 
shouldn’t take a place — a bit bigger nor this — such a one as Storrs’ 
’ud do right well. An’ we’d all live together ; an’ the most o’ the 
work ’ud fall on me, an’ Ah’d be as happy as the day’s long. An’ 
surely there’ll be a ehaange by-an’-by,’ the poor fellow urged, half- 
forgetful of the prophecy he had uttered but five minutes before. 
‘Either the fish ’ll be easier to come by, or the prices ’ll be better, 
or something ’ll turn up i’ some way. An’ even supposin’ noa great 
ehaange comes at all, why we’d go on easier together nor apart. 
There’s nought Ah wouldn’t do for thee, Bab — noa, nought i’ the 
world. Ah think, indeed. Ah do think, truly, ’at Ah could never 
live without thee !’ 

‘ Don’t talk i’ that way. David,’ she replied. ‘ An’ try an’ forget 
ivery word ’at you’ve said. There’s half a dozen lasses an’ more i’ 
Ulvstan Bight as ’d be proud an’ glad to know ’at you cared for ’em. 
An’ there’s good women among ’em ; more nor one ’at would make 
a better wife nor ever I could do wi’ four bairns an’ a gran’father 
to start wi’. No, don’t saay no more, David 1 It ’ud be noa use. 
Don’t saay no more I’ 

But David was hurt, and his hurt would have words. 

‘ Ah’U only say this,’ he urged, his dark eyes flashing in the moon- 
light, ‘ Ah ’ll only say this — you can’t lissen to me, because you’ve 
thought of another i’ yer mind — another ’at ’ll bring ya to misery as 
sure as you’re born ; an’ make you bite the dust o’ the e’th as you’ve 
niver been brought to bite it yet. There is a good bit o’ pride in 
ya, Bab — pride ’at Ah’ve been proud to see, because it seemed to 
speak o’ the high natur’ ’at was in ya — a natur’ ’at would never let 
ya utter no mean word, nor do no mean thing. But yer pride ’ll 


THE RECTORY AT MARKET YARBURGH. 23 

be brought low, arC heHl do it! Mark my word. AhVe got no 
other word to say.’ 

David Andoe turned away, stung, pained beyond endurance. 
There had been a certain studied impassiveness in Bab’s manner, a 
cold discouragement that had never been there before for him. He 
knew nothing of the events of the day, nothing of the new elements 
that had come into Bab’s atmosphere ; but he felt the presence of 
change, and knew it to be full of all adverseness so far as he was 
concerned. The night was a sleepless one, and tinctured deeply 
with the one great trial of his much-tried life. 

CHAPTER m 

THE RECTORY AT MARKET YARBURGH. 

• I come from haunts of coot and hem, 

I make a sudden sally, 

And sparkle out among the fern. 

To bicker down a valley. 

# # # # 

‘ I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by hazel covers ; 

I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
That grow for happy lovers.’ 

Tennyson. 

The river Yarva ceases to bicker before it comes to the old town of 
Market Yarburgh. It winds slowly along between banks so steep 
as to be almost cliff-like ; yet it has four miles farther to flow 
before reaching the more rugged cliffs by the sea. The ruin of the 
ancient Priory stands on a rock at least two hundred feet above the 
river level ; and the bridge which unites the divided town has a 
somewhat perilous look, seeming slender for its great height and 
length ; but since it has stood the trafl&c of more prosperous times 
it is probably equal to anything likely to be demanded of it in the 
present. For Market Yarburgh has pre-eminently the air of a 
town that has ‘ seen better days.’ 

There are quaint coaching inns in the ancient streets ; stately- 
looking old houses of brick and stone stand in high- walled gardens 
— gardens sloping to the sun for the most part. But indeeed every- 
thing stands on a slope in Market Yarburgh. The streets, one and 
all, whether on the east side or on the west, rise at an angle of about 
forty -five degress ; one and all are narrow ; one and all are quiet, 
clean, silent. Women sit on the doorsteps in the main street, with 
their knitting in their hands, their children about them, just as they 
would do in the remotest country village. Fowls peck about among 
the worn, rounded fiint-stones ; linen is stretched out across the 
street to dry. All is slow, dull, primitive, and prosaic. 

The Rectory, a long, low, red-brick building, without one trace 
of architectural beauty natural to it, stood on the hill-top opposite 


24 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


to the ruined Priory. The gardens about it were wide and 
beautiful, the orchards wide and bountiful. A large fish-pond 
divided the two ; rustic arbours, ancient and modern, were dotted 
about the grounds everywhere, with garden chairs and tables under 
drooping trees, placed always where you could have, some glimpse of 
the blue distant beauty of the landscape, or some sweet, bright 
picture of flowers, or trees, or trailing, blossoming creepers. It was 
a place to make happiness itself happier ; to turn unrest into 
perfect calm ; to help to soothe any trouble ; uplift the gloom from 
any hour of sorrow ; upraise the mind and heart in almost any 
moment of heaviness, or lowness, or inaptness for pleasures pure 
and true. To a man like Canon Godfrey it was a veritable ‘ earthly 
paradise,* a place to be grateful for at all times, to look upon with 
an especial gratitude in hours cf discouragement or self-deprecia- 
tion. And many such hours were known to the Canon, as they are 
to all souls that are pure and true, and live by aspiration. 

He was a man of influence — an influence which had spread beyond 
his own immediate neighbourhood. Though he was, comparatively 
speaking, a young man, that is considering the dignity of the 
position he had arrived at in the Church, people came to him from 
afar with troubles, difficulties, perplexities, spiritual and temporal, 
and few went away but went with lighter heart or clearer brain, 
though now and then one went with heavier conscience than 
before. Canon Godfrey was a man who had no tenderness for sin, 
no sympathy with continuance in wrong-doing. Expediency was 
a word he did not understand, 

‘ You had only to see his face once to perceive the bravery 
written there. The broad, unfurrowed brow had yet a stamp of 
vigorous resolution ; the mouth, half hidden by a short moustache, 
and the square chin, were visibly marked by strength and determina- 
tion. And yet the face was not hard — the reverse of that. The 
Jkind, blue eyes alone would have redeemed it from any suspicion 
of hardness or harshness. And now and then a singular expression 
would pass over the handsome countenance, an indefinable some- 
thing that seemed not only to win your admiration for the man, 
but your love, and even your compassion. Had some great sorrow 
left its touch there ? or was the passing claim upon your pathos 
prophetic of sorrow to come ? 

As it has been said, it was only now and then that this sadder 
expression was upon his face. His usual look was one of extreme 
openness, of gladness and brightness subdued by the never-failing 
consciousness that his life was being lived in the presence of that 
life’s Giver. In his merriest and most light-hearted moments — 
and they were not few — that look was in the thoughtful blue eyes 
— the look that told of recollectedness. 

The consultation between the Canon and his wife as to whether 
or no Thorhilda should be allowed to go over to Garlaff Grange on 
a mission of remonstrance to her brother Hartas, was a prolonged 
one, and included side questions of some importance. 


THE RECTOR V AT MARKET YARBURGH. 25 

* What, precisely, does Thorda wish to do ?’ the Canon asked. 
He was sitting by the broad window-sill of his study, leaning his 
head upon his hand in thoughtfulness. ‘ What is she thinking, or 
fearing ?’ 

‘ She is fearing that one of two things will happen,’ replied Mrs. 
Godfrey, speaking with graver face and voice than usual. ‘ Either 
that Hartas will marry &rbara Burdas, or that he will trifle with 
her — win her affection, and then leave her to her misery. Thorhilda 

hopes to be able to persuade him to break off the well, let us 

say the acquaintanceship, at once.’ 

‘ Does she think that Hartas really cares for the girl ?’ 

‘ She is persuaded that he cares intensely ; that is the difficulty. 
All her hope lies in the idea that Barbara does not yet care greatly 
for him. She means to try to influence them both.’ 

Canon Godfrey was silent for a while ; but it was an eloquent 
silence. He wife knew that he was thinking deeply. 

‘I am not sure that I should consider Hartas’s marriage to 
Barbara Burdas such a great calamity,’ he said presently. 

* My dear Hugh P exclaimed his wife. Her astonishment pre- 
cluded further speech, 

‘ Think of it 1 ’ said the Canon gravely. ‘ You would never wish 
him to remain unmarried — that would round his chances of ruin as 
few other things would do. And what kind of wife can you expect 
him to win ? I do not forget that I am speaking of your nephew ; 
and I speak precisely as I should of any relation of my own — you 
know that, Milicent ; and therefore I can ask you to think seriously 
of his utter want of culture, of his idleness, his rough manner ; and 
last, but not least, of his utter pennilessness. He is Squire Theyn’s 
son, I grant you ; but what woman, in what the world would call 
his own rank of life, would marry him? It may seem a hard 
saying, but, so far as I can perceive, it would not be at all a bad 
thing that he should marry a woman of the working class. His 
very surroundings would then impel him to work himself ; he 
would be happier, stronger, and he would be a better and more 
respectable member of society. . . . But these are extempore 
thoughts, my dear Milicent. Therefore don’t let them disturb 
you.’ 

‘ You will not mention them to Thorhilda yet awhile ?’ 

‘ Certainly not. I shall expect her to do all she can to avert the 
threatened catastrophe. There are many other things to be said. 
Society is so constituted nowadays that it would not be at all 
needful for Hartas to make such a violent descent in the social 
scale. I could name half a dozen good girls in the neighbourhood 
more suitable than Bab Burdas. There are the three daughters of 
Stephens, at the saw-mills, then there is Annie Prior, and there are 
Grace and Agnes Young. No ; he need not go to the limpet-rocks 
for a wife. Still I have, and always have had, a high opinion of 
Barbara Burdas. There is more in her than meets the eye at the 


26 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


first moment, and beyond all doubt she is attractive, strongly and 
strikingly attractive. It is in Hartas’s favour that he should be 
drawn to admire a woman of such force of character.' 

‘ Yet you would hardly wish to call her your niece V 

The Canon saw that his wife was moved to a greater extent than 
she wished to betray. Her face was flushed, her lips slightly 
tremulous. The moment was a weighty one to both. 

‘ I should not,' the Canon replied ; ‘ but I half suspect myself in 
making the admission. I am no Kadical, as you know, but a staunch 
and loyal Conservative, with a firm belief in the fact that social 
differences — differences of wealth, rank, and position — are part of a 
divinely-ordered plan. It is childish to suppose otherwise — childish and 
unscriptural. The roots of all such differences are innate, and not to 
be done away by any merely human legislation. The foolish people 
who suppose that the nationalisation of the land, the dispersion of 
capital, the equalization of wealth would change the order of things 
permanently, must be strangely incapable of looking beyond to- 
morrow. Put all humanity on one level — so far as the possession 
of wealth is concerned — this afternoon, and by this day week we 
should find ourselves more widely separated than ever before. 
Yet, do not mistake me, do not suppose that I am satisfied with 
things as they are ; do not for one moment imagine that I can look 
upon, or think upon, the poor of the land, the poor at our very 
gate, and not be filled with compunction, nay, with remorse. I 
have thought much of these things of late ; I hope to think much 
more ; and I cannot tell whither I may be led and guided. All my 
prayer is that I may have strength to obey whatever light may be 
given me. I feel strongly that I am on the verge of some spiritual 
and human crisis ; and it is thought of, and knowledge of, the con- 
dition of the poor of England that have led me to this critical 
verge. I cannot speak now of my thought, of my aim, of my 
aspiration ; I cannot tell you now how I yearn to be instrumental, 
were it but ever so slightly, in bringing about a better order of 
things, a reconcilement of ideas, a union of hopes, an amelioration 
of the actual present condition of “ poor humanity." But you will 
understand that I cannot look with quite your horror upon the 
thing you are dreading. I have said that I have no desire to call 
Barbara Burdas my niece, yet I trust that I should exhibit no un- 
manly or unchristian pride if I were called upon to acknowledge 
the relationship. My ideas want readjusting.’ 

‘If yours need readjustment, what must other people's need ?' 

‘I cannot tell — I cannot tell I And I am, in a certain sense, 
responsible for so many people’s ideas. The thought is appalling. 
It comes to me in the night when I wake, and I grow hot with the 
sudden pressure of conscience ; and then the weight of dread chills 
me and I sleep. Is it typical — the night’s programme ? Can it be ? 
I pray that it may not ! Come what may, I trust that my soul will 
never sleep, nor words of mine lull any other soul to sleep. • . • I 


THE RECTOR Y AT MARKET YARB URGH. 27 


am always glad to see that Thorda’s conscience is quick enough 
with regard to her own people/ 

‘ Quick enough ! I fear it is only too quick/ replied Mrs. God- 
frey with enthusiasm. ‘ If you had seen her face yesterday morning 
you would not think it needful to harrow her feelings about such a 
worthless weed as her brother Hartas/ 

‘ Milicent ! That is not like you !’ 

‘ I know it is not. Forgive me ! But when I think of the way 
in which he has received your most kindly advice and persuasion — 
to say nothing of my own — and when I remember his lifelong 
laziness, his insolence, his utter and wilful ignorance, I feel all that 
is wicked within me stirred to the last dregs. . . . And, oh me 1 I 
fear that Rhoda is but very little better.* 

‘ You are not alone in that fear, Milicent. And every now and 
then there comes across me a sharp pang — have we, after all, striven 
to the uttermost ? One can never know V 
‘ You can never know, Hugh dear ; because you are never 
satisfied with yourseif — do what you may. Think of the manner 
in which you strove with Rhoda for weeks together after the long 
illness that she had, three years ago ; and when her very life had 
been despaired of I How you talked to her, and besought her, and 
prayed with her, and for her, even when she was answering your 
every word with a sneer. Oh, don*t speak of your not having done 
enough. Surely there is a limit to human effort I* 

‘ Ah ! but who shall dare to fix it ? Not any human being. 
Think of the long-sufferance one almost expects from God Himself ! 
Think of His exclaiming, by the mouth of His prophet Amos, 
“ Behold^ I am pressed under you as a cart is pressed that is full of 
sheaves /’* What human experience can be named by the side of 
that ? Oh ! don’t let us talk of having done enough ; rather let us 
begin again at the beginning, and strengthen one’s effort as one 
perceives greater need for effort. Let Thorda go this afternoon by 
all means. Her very calmness, her simple, natural elevation, may 
do more than words can do. Certainly, let her go ; let her have 
such satisfaction as may come from the knowledge that “ she has 
done what she could.” * 


CHAPTER Vni. 

AT GARLAFF GRANGE. 

* A piteous lot it were to flee from man, 

Yet not rejoice in Nature.* 

Wordsworth. 

The Grange stood in a deep hollow, surrounded by green folding 
hills. The sloping fields were each one bordered by hedges of 
hawthorn, tall straggling hedges with crisp emerald foliage, and 


28 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


scented flowers of creamy white embossing every spray. There 
were still cattle in the pastures, but they were few and ill-favoured. 
There were sheep and young lambs, but not of the breed that had 
once been the pride and boast of Garlaff Grange. In the hill-side 
paddock at the back of the house, the ancient hack on which the 
Squire now and then rode to market was grazing at his ease. The 
garden was shut in by gray stone walls, high and massive, and of 
quaint style. Below, a road wound round to half a dozen labourers’ 
cottages, which stood at the back of the Grange, half buried among 
pear and cherry and apple trees. Sweet briar bushes, mingled with 
crisp gooseberries, pushed their way through the dilapidated palings, 
currants shot upward and waved about with the airy lightness of 
spirit common to unproductive men and things everywhere. The 
stables were near the cottages, the unsavoury refuse heaps stood in 
front, and made debatable land for fowls and pigs. Down there 
in the hollow all was so sunny, so warm, so picturesque, so luxuriant, 
that a sense of drowsiness seemed the natural and inevitable in- 
fluence of the place. Thorhilda, stepping from the carriage, seemed 
certainly as if she stepped into some Lotus Land wherein it was 
‘ always afternoon.’ 

There was an ancient archway in the wall, filled by a big old 
oaken door, and then a long pathway under meeting lilacs and 
laburnums. There were some snowy guelder-roses on either hand, 
and the rosy mauve of rhododendrons. The broad steps up to the 
house were moss-grown, the bent and broken railing of wrought 
iron was half covered by the young green of climbing rose-trees. 
A scarlet japonica hung from the wall between the low stone 
mullioned windows, needing sorely a little kindly pruning and 
training. This air of neglect was upon everything, upon the panes 
of the leaded windows upon the steep red-tiled roof, under the 
eaves where long spires of grass waved in the wooden spouting, 
stopping the flowing of the rain. The nests of familiar swallows 
clung to the wall, pigeons cooed upon the roof. All was still, and 
sad, and sweet, and melancholy. 

Though it was the middle of the afternoon, the Squire was there 
by the fireside of the big untidy dining-room. His long clay pipe 
was in his hand, his tankard of ale before him. His whole air and 
appearance was that of a man defiant of all opinion, careless of all 
regard, hopeless of any good, present or future. 

That he had once been a man with some claim to be considered 
fine-looking you saw at a glance, and indeed there was still some- 
thing in the expression of his face, especially when the deep-gray 
eyes were lifted to yours suddenly and seriously, that awoke in you 
a kind of wonder, mingled with compassion. It was an expression 
that told you that, whatever the present, the past had not been 
wholly bounded by poverty, inner or outer, by mental lowness, by 
physical carelessness. His dress was characteristic. The black 
velveteen coat was not new, nor had it been well preserved, and 


AT GARLAFF GRANGE. 


29 


yet it had an air of its own, an air that neither dust nor dirt could 
quite destroy ; and the corduroy knee-breeches were not of the kind 
worn by the Squire’s stable-boy. The finishing touch to bis 
costume was given by a low, wide-brimmed, gray felt hat, which he 
had not removed when he sat down to his one o’clock dinner. 
Though his dead wife’s sister, Miss Averil Chalgrove, and Rhoda, 
his younger daughter, had dined at the same table, their presence 
had not moved him to any courtesy. Miss Chalgrove had ceased 
to expect it long ago, and Rhoda, never having known her father 
to be guilty of weakness of that kind, would have been surprised to 
discern any sign of charge. She had no wish for such change. 
Things would be very well as they were if only money were not so 
scarce at the Grange. Yery naturally Rhoda craved for more life, 
more movement, more pleasure, and it may be that the denial of 
these and other needs had done more to warp a nature not naturally 
good or lovable than any about her could perceive. No one pro- 
fessed to understand Squire Theyn’s youngest daughter. 

Rhoda was there in the room, and Hartas. Miss Chalgrove had , 
gone ‘ to lie down,* as her custom was always in the afternoon. 
How else could she keep that look of youthfulness upon which she 
prided herself so greatly ? It was haste, and impetuosity, and over- 
anxiety that destroyed the looks of nine women out of ten, so she 
averred, with an emphasis unsuited to the theory she was maintain- 
ing. And she added always an expression of her opinion that 
Garlaff Grange was no fitting home for one so sensitive to rough- 
ness, to unrefinement, to unorthodox ways of living as herself. It 
never had been, but no alternative had been open to her. These 
facts she dwelt upon in a manner that might have done something 
toward destroying the harmony of any other household. At the 
Grange, unhappily, there was no harmony to be destroyed. 

They had heard the carriage, this strange trio, and Rhoda had 
gone to the window as quickly as the movements of her ungainly 
figure would permit. As she seated herself again she said in a tone 
of sullen disappointment : 

‘Nobbut the Princess !’ 

No one rose when Thorhilda opened for herself the door of the 
wide, gray, slovenly-looking room. She was smiling pleasantly, 
trying to look genial, as she glanced from one unsmiling, irresponsive 
face to another ; saying in her lightest and cheeriest tone : 

‘ Good-morning, father ! good-morning, all of you ! What a 
glorious day it is ! Surely Aunt Averil could not make up her 
mind to go and lie down to-day ! I thought that perhaps she and 
you would have gone for a little drive, Rhoda, while I am here . , , , 
Would you like to go ?’ 

‘ Naay, — Ah care nowt aboot it,’ said Rhoda slowly and sullenly, 
after a somewhat irritating period of hesitation. She was not in 
the habit of speaking broad Yorkshire except to the Rectory party. 
By that subtle instinct 'which such people always seem to posses* 


30 


IN EXCHANGE FOE A SOUL. 


in perfection, she knew that her use of the dialect in its coarsest 
form gave annoyance. 

But Thorhilda was not to be easily annoyed to-day. 

‘ Then I will have the carriage put up, if I may,’ she said, as 
pleasantly as if no refusal of a kind offer had had to be encoun- 
tered. ‘And perhaps you will give me a cup of tea presently. 
Hartas, will you please tell Woodward to come round for me at 
five ? — or no, say half -past ; that will give me a little longer time.* 

Hartas rose slowly, and went out, his pipe still in his mouth, his 
hands in his pockets ; a look of strange indocile determination 
upon his unformed features. 

‘ Forewarned’s forearmed !’ he said to himself half audibly as he 
went down under the white and purple lilac trees to the front gate 
to give the message. The two men on the box of the carriage 
listened, touched their hats respectfully, and turned away, the older 
man half sorry for Miss Theyn, whom he had known and liked 
greatly from her earliest childhood. The younger man was some- 
what scornful under his outer respectfulness, and contemptuous of 
Miss Theyn’ s brother. 

Hartas was less imperceptive, less indifferent than he appeared 
to be ; and his perception did not tend to modify the feeling with 
which he turned to meet his elder sister, who was coming down the 
steps, smiling kindly, yet half sadly, and looking into his face with 
a beseeching, winning look that would have won any other man’s 
favour in spite of himself. 

‘ Let us go into the orchard, Hartas,’ she said, making a move- 
ment as if she would put her hand within his ^rm, but this he 
evaded skilfully. It was much that he consented to follow her 
through the narrow door that was all overhung with white blossom 
and green waving sprays. He was in no mood to bear expostu- 
lation. 

‘ Might as well have it over though,’ he said to himself. ‘ An’ 
the sooner the better. But they must’n think, none of ’em, ’at 
they’re goin’ to come between me an’ Barbara Burdas.’ 

CHAPTER IX. 

* love’s nobility.* 

‘ Man was made of social earth, 

Child and brother from his birth, 

Fettered by the lightest cord 

Of blood thro’ veins of kindness poured. 

Next his heart the fireside band 
Of mother, father, children stand ; 

Names from awful childhood heard, 

Throbs of a wild religion stirred.’ 

Emerson. 

Curiously enough, it was Hartas who opened the conversation, 
rather to Thorhilda’s relief. It was not so easy to her to go 


^ LOVERS NOB I LIT Y: 


31 


straight to the heart of this delicate matter as it had appeared to 
be beforehand ; and, in the moment of silence that followed their 
entrance into the orchard, it seemed to Miss Theyn that she had 
never before so clearly recognised the strangeness that was between 
her brother and herself, the absence of all fraternal feeling on his 
part, the presence of non-sisterly diffidence and trepidation on her 
own. But, as was usual with her in such crises, she made a strong 
mental effort to regain her natural standpoint ; and the effort was 
successful. She listened quite calmly to Hartas’s opening speech. 

‘ Time’s not o’ much vally to me,’ he began, taking his pipe from 
his mouth with evident reluctance. ‘ Therefore I can’t say ’at I 
don’t want to waste it. An’ as for words, well, I’ve no special 
talent i’ that direction ; as no doubt you’ve found out afore to-day. 
Still, I don’t want to spend neither words nor time upon the 
subject you’ve come here to talk about. It won’t do no good, you 
see, not the least. If Barbara Burdas would but listen to me, an’ 
the law o’ the land allowed, I’d marry her to-night. I’d not wait 
for to-morrow.’ 

Real earnestness is always impressive, and is as the ‘ heat which 
sets our human atoms spinning ’ in the direction the one in earnest 
would have us travel. 'The fervour of a true affection is seldom to 
be altogether ignored, even by the coldest. 

‘ How long have you cared for her so much ?’ Miss Theyn asked 
in a gentle and sympathetic way. And her very voice, the affec- 
tionate unexpected kindness of it, touched Hartas as no remonstrance 
could have done. All unaware he was already betrayed. 

‘ How long ? All my life, or so it seems to me now,’ he replied, 
^ or mebbe I’d better say, all her life. Why, it only seems like 
yesterday ’at she was a little hard-working thing of twelve or 
fourteen ; bright, an’ bonny, an’ full o’ mischief,, yet as disdainful 
as the highest lady o’ the land. An’ then somehow, all at once it 
seemed, she came to be eighteen ; and ’ 

‘ Eighteen !’ interposed Thorhilda in amazement. ‘ I should 
have said she was at least eight-and-twenty !’ 

‘She looks more like that,’ Hartas admitted somewhat sadly. 
‘ But think of the life she’s lived for the last six years ! Mebbe 
you don’t know nought about it ; an’ couldn’t understand if you 
did ; but I know. I’ve watched her all along when she little 
thought of it ; an’ many a time the sight’s been bad anuff to bear, 
I can tell you.’ 

‘What made you think of her first?’ Thorhilda asked, still 
speaking in a tone that told of more than mere kindly interest. 

‘First of all! That I can hardly say,’ Hartas replied with 
softened voice, and a decided increase of confidingness in his 
manner. ‘ I remember when she was a little thing. (I’m ten 
years older than she is — ten all but three months.) An’ I always 
noticed her when I was down at the Bight. She was so different 
from the rest somehow, so superior, an’ yet so winnin’ ; an’ they 


32 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUE 


all seemed to know it, an’ to give in when she was by. . . . An 
then that awful storm came ; an’ I was down on the cliff-top that 
mornin’. Oh ! I’ll never forget it !’ 

‘ Was that the day her father was drowned ?’ 

‘ Her father and her mother. . . . But you can’t have forgot ! 
Why, the whole land rang wi’ the stories o’ that gale for weeks 
after !’ 

‘ There have been so many gales,’ replied Thorhilda deprecatingly. 
‘ And I was younger then ; and perhaps less sympalhizing. But I 
do remember something of the loss of the North Star, . , , Wasn’t 
that the name of the boat that suffered here ?’ 

‘ It was the name o’ one of the boats ’at was wrecked in Ulvstan 
Bight that mornin’, but it was not the name o’ the one at belonged 
mostly to Ephraim Burdas. She was called the Seamew. An’ a 
fine boat she was, for her size. I remember her well. Old Ephraim 
had only pointed her out to me about a week before, telling me 
how she was the fulfilment of all his hopes, the result of all his 
long life’s toil. She’d cost him over four hundred pounds alto- 
gether ; an’ she was every plank his own save one-eighth part, the 
single share that Jim Tyas had bought. Aji’ ’twas old Ephraim ’at 
sailed her ; the others never seemed right when the old man wasn’t 
at the helm. An’ he’d taken bis usual place that night ; never 
dreamin o’ nought happenin’ out o’ the common. All ’at ever he 
remembered after was ’at his son, Bab’s father, had seemed out o’ 
spirits ; an’ had never spoken to nobody after they went out o’ the 
Bight till the storm burst upon ’em all of a sudden. ’Twas him ’at 
first saw it cornin’, in fact. But you should hear old Ephraim tell 
the tale.’ 

I would rather hear it from yon ; only make it brief ; and not 
too sad. . . . How many were there in the boat altogether ?’ 

‘ Only four. As I said, the old man was in the stern ; an’ they’d 
shot the lines some nine or ten miles off the land. Then they’d sat 
down to rest for awhile ; an’ to pass the darkest time o’ the night. 
’Twas a fair sort o’ mornin’ ; fine, an’ light, an’ calm ; but about 
four o’clock, as old Ephraim were leanin’ again the side o’ the boat, 
his head upon his hand, half asleep, all of a sudden he heard his son 
shoutin’; ^ 

‘ ‘‘ By heav’n^ there^s a storm upon us / Yonder’s a ship flyin’ 
afore the gale, wi’ her sails all torn to rags an’ ribbons !” 

‘ The old man couldn’t believe it ; but he jumped up, an’ looked 
out seaward ; an’ sure anuff, ’twas as young Ephraim had said. 
There wasn’t a second to be lost. They tried to head the boat for 
the nearest land— it happened to be Yarva Wyke ; but long afore 
they could reach it the gale broke up the sea ; an’ Jim Tyas wasn’t 
at all for landin’ there. Jim was a chap ’at was alius desperate 
feared in a storm, so old Ephraim told me ; an’ he said he’d never 
seen the man so feared as he was that mornin’ when the hurricane 
was fairly upon ’em. They down with the sail afore they touched 


‘ LO VE nobility: 


33 


the sea-break ; but there seemed no chance for ’em ; an’ afore 
they’d been tossing upon the edge o’ the breakers many minutes a 
great wave struck the boat, an’ knocked the side completely out of 
her. It appeared to be all over then. Jim cried out, '‘'‘ Lord ha' 
mercy upon my wicked soul this day T an’ as old Ephraim said, it 
almost seemed as if Providence had heard him, for the strangest 
thing happened ’at ever the old man had seen in all his long life. 
The sea broke away right in front of them in the curiousest 
manner, an’ stood up like walls on either hand ; an’ they were 
driven through between as fast as they could go. But the boat 
was breakin’ to bits under ’em every minute ; an’ at last they were 
all four tossin’ i’ that awful sea. 

‘ They could all of ’em swim, better or worse, an’ they all reached 
the rocks, but ’twere in a bad place. The cliff’s like a house-end 
just there ; an’ though a dozen or more people had gathered on the 
top of it, they’d neither rope nor ladder ; an’ the worst of it was 
young Ephraim’s wife was there, Bab’s mother, an’ she’d three 
little children dingin’ to her gown ; an’ a four-weeks old baby at 
her breast ; an’ she weren’t well — hadn’t never been since the child 
was born. An’ when she saw the boat’s crew just below, dingin’ 
to one another on the narrow ledge under the cliff, the straight wall 
of rock behind ’em, an’ the rising tide beating upon ’em more 
furiously every moment, ’twere more than she could bear. Breakin’ 
away fra the little ones all of a sudden, she sprang from the top o’ 
the rock wi’ her new-born baby in her arms ; an’ almost as she 
struck the water her husband dashed in again after her ; an’ folks 
has told me since ’at it was all they could do to keep Bab from 
makin’ a fourth. Nobody could help the three ’at was strugglin’ 
there. They went down, within half a dozen yards o’ dry land. 
An’ the curiousest part of it all was that little Ailsie washed up, 
not only alive, but seeming none so much the worse. I helped 
to catch hold of her, and to give her to Bab. An’ that’s why Bab 
cares for her so much, an’ can hardly bear to let the little thing out 
of her sight. . . . Bab was only twelve years old when it all 
happened ; but if she’d been twice tw;elve she couldn’t have been a 
better mother to the three small lads an’ the little girl. But it’s no 
use talkin’. Such as you can never see the good in such a woman 
as Barbara Burdas. She can’t play the piano. I doubt much 
whether she’s ever either heard one, or seen one. An’ pickin’ 
flithers for the fishermen of Ulvstan Bight isn’t quite such a refined 
way o’ spendin’ time as makin’ wax-flowers, or crochy antimacassars. 
No ; Bab isn’t refined wi’ what you an’ most others such as you 
would call refinement — not what you'd call a “ lady.” But no lady 
’at I’ve ever seen, or ever can see, would lift me out o’ the mire as 
Barbara Burdas could do, if she cared to think about me at all ; 
an’ there isn’t another woman in the world, ’at I know of, ’at under- 
stands what unselfishness means as she understands it ; not another 
nowhere ’at lives a life so totally self -sacrificin’. An’ the best of it 
is she doesn’t never dream ’at she’s doin’ aught but what she’s 


34 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


bound to do. You couldn’t open her eyes, if you tried, to the 
meanin’ o’ self an’ self-interest. . . . But I said I didn’t want to 
waste no time on this subject, an’ here I am, wastin’ a whole 
quarter of an hour.’ 

‘ Don’t regret it,’ Thorhilda replied, using the brevity that comes 
of over-fulness of new thought. Hartas’s vividly told story, the 
graphic touches of it, the intense reality, had impressed his sister 
greatly. And that in communicating to her his knowledge of 
Barbara Burdas and her life he should* at the same time have 
betrayed much that was new, and not unfavourable, of himself, was 
a fact demanding consideration. 

‘ I am glad to hear all this from you^ Hartas,’ she continued. ‘ I 
am pleased that you should talk to me about Barbara Burdas.’ 

‘ An’ you’ll be glad if I’ll lissen to what you’ve got to say in 
return,’ the young man broke in with some impetuosity. ‘ But 
remember what I said at the beginning. I mean to make her my 
wife if she will but consent — consent on any terms.’ 

‘ And if she will not ?’ 

‘ If she won’t, I don’t care what becomes of me.’ 

‘ I don’t want to preach to you, Hartas,’ Thorhilda replied with 
some natural diffidence, ‘ but is that altogether a manly mood in 
which to meet one of the greatest crises that can happen in your 
lifetime ?’ 

‘ Manly ? Mebbe not. But I reckon ’at you don’t know much 
o’ what such a disappointment ’ud mean to me — if it came to that. 
An’ you an’ all your set ’ud be rejoicin’, as if something good had 
happened.’ 

‘ Can you put yourself in our place for a moment — in my place, 
for instance ?’ Thorhilda asked with gentle firmness. ‘ Can you 
even try to imagine what such a marriage would be to me, what it 
would mean to my life, were you, my only brother, to marry a — a 
bait-gatherer ?’ 

* It needn’t mean no more to you than the wind that blows !’ 
Hartas replied, with his rough, ready emphasis. ‘ Why should you 
think it would V Why should we ever come near you ? When 
have I ever come in your way, except when I couldn’t help it ? 
When have I ever asked a favour of you ? When have I ever 
expected so much as a kind word from you, or a helpful one, when 
I was particularly needing it ? What have I ever asked, or 
requested of you at all, save ’at you should go your way an’ leave 
me to go mine ?’ 

‘ You have requested nothing — that is true enough,’ Thorhilda 
replied, involuntarily subduing her voice to the softest and gentlest 
contrast possible. ‘But, remember, the difference between us was 
never created by me, nor by anyone at the Rectory. You must 
admit that my aunt and uncle have done what they could. And 
yon must also admit that, though you have repulsed them time 
after time, they have never ceased to make fresh advances. Be 
generous, at least in word ; as they have been in deed. , • . But, 


^ LOVERS NOBILITY^ 


35 


pardon me, I am saying more than I meant to say. I do not want 
to irritate you — anything but that. But I felt constrained to say 
that all the coldness and strangeness has been your doing — not 
mine — not ours. It has pained me ceaselessly and infinitely. It 
has hurt me, and kept me from my sleep ; it has darkened many a 
day ; poisoned many a pleasure. . . . Hartas, do you think that I 
have no aifection for you ?’ 

It was a singular scene. That a woman of Miss Theyn’s state- 
liness and loveliness, of her extreme refinement, should stand there 
pleading for some sign of recognition of the tie that was between 
herself and the man who seemed as the veriest clod by her side, 
was surely a touching and pathetic thing. Was Hartas feeling it 
to be strange? Was he moved in any way? — impelled to any 
warmth of responsiveness that he yet had no art or intellect to 
express ? 

‘ It’s a bad moment to speak o’ such a thing now,’ he said, having 
less of his natural harshness and brusqueness of manner than before. 
‘ I don’t doubt but that you may feel more like a sister to me than 
I ever dreamed you did ; an’ at another time I might ha’ been glad 
of it. But, as I said, I know what’s brought you here this after- 
noon ; an’ I’ve only one answer to all you have said, or can say. 
That answer you’ve had. I won’t anger you wi’ sayin’ it again.’ 

Thorhilda was silent for awhile. One thing she had to congratu- 
late herself upon — nay, two moved her to a momentary content. 
She had not irritated her brother ; and she had a hopeful feeling 
of having opened a way that might some day lead to his heart. 

‘ I hope your time has not been quite wasted, Hartas,’ she replied. 

‘ I should certainly not consider that it has been if we might begin 
to realize, but ever so faintly, that we each owe something to the 
other — some help, some sympathy, some affection, or, at least, some 
friendliness of feeling. . . . Has it ever occurred to you that I could 
feel lonely ? — that 1 have no brother or sister, except in name ?’ 

Hartas Theyn’s face was lifted in most earnest surprise. 

‘ You lonely !’ he exclaimed. ‘ No ; when I’ve thought about 
you at all I’ve thought that if ever anybody in this world did have 
all they wanted it was you.’ 

‘ Then, ah, how you have been mistaken !’ Thorhilda replied with 
some emphasis. ‘ Don’t imagine that I complain. I am much too 
conscious of the good that is mine to do that ; but my life has not 
been perfect in its happiness — how should it ? You little dream of 
what I have felt in other people’s houses— homes where there may 
have been a dozen, or half a dozen brothers and sisters, all kind, all 
loving, all happy ! Ah ! how often it has pained me to see it all — 
to see it from outside, as a wanderer may sit on a doorstep on a 
winters night and see the warmth and light within, which he may 
not feel or share ! I am not blaming you — I am blaming no one. 
I am merely telling you how it has been with me — how it is yet. 
I want you to understand how it is, even now.’ 

‘ I don’t see that I can help matters much,’ Hartas replied, not 

3—2 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL 


36 

sullenly or indifferently, but with the perplexed absence of one 
absorbed in thought. 

‘ I have thought that you might — some day,’ Thorhilda said. ‘ I 
have so often thought of your marriage, so often dreamed of your 
wife as one who would be my sister, who would draw us together, 
who would make me feel that I was your sister in reality. And I 
have seen her in my mind many a time, a good, loving, understand- 
ing woman, with — pardon me for saying it— culture enough to be a 
friend to me, and love enough to bear with all short-comings in 
you. . . . And now, now my dream is ended. . . . What wonder 
that I should plead with you, entreat you, at least, to consider, to 
do nothing in haste !’ 

Perhaps it was fortunate that at that moment Ehoda came up 
under the white orchard trees. Her appearance might have been 
amusing to anyone in a mood to be amused lightly ; but to 
Thorhilda all was distressing, from the heavy rolling gait to the 
untidy tweed dress, unfastened at the throat, yet displaying no 
finishing touch in the shape of lace or linen collar. Her pretty 
golden hair was huddled into a shapeless coil at the back of her 
head ; there was a sullen expression about the large mouth, and in 
the greenish hazel eyes. Her voice was in keeping, being gruff, 
indistinct, unpleasant. 

‘ If ya want that tea, it’s ready,’ she said, stopping short of her 
elder sister and brother by some yards. 

Then she turned and rolled back again. Thorhilda sighed and 
followed her. The visit was over, and it had availed nothing. 

‘ Nothing at all !’ she said to herself sadly. 

‘Nothing, nothing at all!’ she repeated to the Canon, who was 
walking thoughtfully up and down under the veranda at the 
Rectory when she returned, waiting to console her, or to rejoice 
with her, as occasion might require. And now, as always, his con- 
solation was sufficiently effective. 

‘ Be patient, Thorda dear, and don’t despair,’ he said, holding her 
hand in his warm, fatherly grasp. ‘ The most far-seeing of us can’t 
see the length of the next hour, or the full meaning of this. . . . 
And now go and dress quickly and prettily ; there are some of your 
favourite pale yellow pansies to wear. The Merediths will be here 
in twenty minutes.* 

^ CHAPTER X. 

*IN ALL TIME OF OUR WEALTH.’ 

* Dear friend — If I were sure of thee, sure of thy capacity, sure to match 
my mood with thine, I should never again think of trifles in relation to thy 
comings and goings. . . . Thou art to me a dehcious torment. Thine ever, 
or never.’ — Emerson. 

The dinner-party at the Rectory was quite- a small one. Mrs. 
Meredith, handsome, correct, more affable than usual, sat at Canon 
Godfrey’s right hand. Her son Percival was next to Miss Theyn. 


^ IN ALL TIME OF OUR WEALTW 


37 


Gertrude Douglas, Thorhilda’s friend, had been taken in to dinner 
by the Rev. Marcus Egerton, the one curate of Market Yarburgh. 

Gossip had been busy about the four last-mentioned names for 
some time ; but, as usual, the suggestions and hints that had been 
passed about were at least premature. Miss Theyn, as we have 
seen, was by no means sure even of her own wish and will, and Miss 
Douglas was not a likely woman to marry a poor curate. She 
was older than Thorhilda, taller, stronger, and perhaps equally 
beautiful in the eyes of some, though in quite a different way, and 
she was certainly more ambitious. Being the daughter of a not too 
successful country surgeon, she had a very natural dread of small 
means. 

‘ I must marry,’ she had said openly to Thorhilda, ‘ and I must 
marry a rich man. I have had enough of poverty !’ 

‘But you would not marry anyone merely because he was rich?’ 
Thorhilda had asked in unfeigned surprise. 

‘ I fear I should,’ Gertrude made answer, speaking half sadly and 
tentatively. She had no wish to shock Miss Theyn, th ;ugh often 
she came nearer to doing so than she dreamed. ‘I fear I should,’ 
she had replied. ‘Market Yarburgh is not a place to afford one 
many chances. I am nearly thirty, and I look older than I am. . . . 
But don’t let us talk of it at present, dear. Let us speak of your 
chances rather than of mine. There is not another Percival 
Meredith in the neighbourhood.’ 

Miss Douglas had perceived without being able quite to compre- 
hend Miss Theyn’s flush of annoyance and indignation. Not even 
a friend so intimate as Gertrude Douglas might speak of a matter so 
delicate, so immature, without offending her sense of good taste. 

‘My chances !’ she exclaimed. ‘If you care for me, Gertrude, if 
you care for my friendship in the least, you will hardly speak so 
again to me. Indeed, indeed, I thought you had known me better 
than to speak like that !’ 

This had happened some time before. Gertrude had laughed 
most musically, most good-naturedly, and had kissed away Thor- 
hilda’s offended dignity at once. There was a peculiar fascination 
about Miss Douglas ; she never took offence, and she was cleverer 
than Thorhilda in many ways ; she had wider knowledge of the 
world, keener insight into certain sides of human nature ; her 
manner was full of charm, and her temperament most cheerful and 
amiable. If these good qualities had some alloy, Thorhilda was not 
one to dwell upon the fact. Gertrude Douglas was her friend, and 
perfect loyalty requires that even thought itself should be silent 
now and then. 

Gertrude came often to the Rectory. She appreciated the 
pleasant little dinner-parties ; not only the varied menu^ the delicate 
cookery, the careful service, but also the beautiful silver, the lovely 
flowers that decorated the table and the rooms in such profusion, 
the perfect lighting, the general air of daintiness and finish that 
was upon everything. Her own narrow home was sadly apt to 


38 


JN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


seem narrower after a few days in the wider rooms in the house on 
the hill-top ; the very carpets seemed dingier and poorer, the chairs 
harder, the sofas more uncomfortable ; the meals were hardly worth 
sitting down too. As a matter of course she kept silence as to her 
appreciation ; she had too much tact to speak of such matters, 
expect now and then to Thorhilda alone. For social life she had 
enough of other and brighter topics, and to-night, as usual, she gave 
sufficient rein to her conversational powers without seeming to 
display them in any undue manner. No awkward pauses might 
happen at any table to which Miss Douglas had been invited. 

After dinner, while the two elder ladies sat chatting by the fire 
in the drawing-room, Thorhilda and Gertrude stood near the 
window in the dim twilight, the hour that so often attunes two 
waiting souls to helpful intercourse ; we owe more, spiritually, than 
we acknowledge, to the physical alternation of night and day. 

The curtains by that especial west window had been left undrawn, 
as usual, by Thorhilda’s wish. Outside the stars were burning in a 
clear, dark sky ; a young moon was dropping over the towers of the 
ruin on the opposite hill-top ; beyond the moon there was a faint, 
white mist overspreading the distance ; the whole scene was touched 
by that mystery of mingled light and darkness which makes so 
much of the poetry of this most poetic world. And yet the poetry 
is often tinged with sadness ; the sadness of all suggested beauty. 
It is in music of almost every kind ; it is not absent from any good 
picture ; but it is in the natural world that one feels its charm most 
strongly and strangely. The first morning hour when the light as 
it were breathes upon the east, the last evening hour, when it seems 
to sigh itself gently and sadly away, the calm, stirless moonlight, 
the soft, wondrous glowing of the winter starlight over the wide 
expanse of moor or of sea ; all these in their tender disclosures, 
their mystic reservations, move the soul to ‘ strange yearnings 
after we know not what, and awful impressions from we know not 
whence.’ The wise man is he who seeks these finer influences 
frequently, and having found them, acknowledges with gratitude 
that it is ‘ good to be there.’ 

The two younger women were still standing silently, but Miss 
Douglas broke the silence so soon as she felt it. 

‘ Thorda dear, you are not happy to-night !’ she said in her 
round, full, musical voice, a voice difficult to soften at any time. 

Thorhilda smiled, and lifted her face to her friend. 

‘ It is odd that you should make that remark,’ she replied, in 
tones that contrasted perfectly with those of Gertrude Douglas. 

‘ All day, nay, for quite two days now, I have found myself think- 
ing of happiness at every spare moment, and this by no deliberate 
w ish or will of my own. Is it not strange ?’ 

‘Very. . . . But surely you are happy enough ? What happi- 
T'^ss you haven’t yet is coming toward you as fast as it can come. 
No, don’t turn your face away, dear ; I won’t say another word. I 
couldn't help sitting opposite to you at dinner, you know; neither 


^IN ALL TIME OE OUR WEALTW 


39 

could I help seeing Mr. Meredith’s face, or hearing his voice. 
There — IVe d me V 

‘ Of that I’m glad. . . . But, Gertrude, you mistake me alto- 
gether. It was not only of my own happiness I was thinking, but 
of that of other people — of the whole human race in fact. We all 
want to be happy ; we are, many of us, striving for it ; yet surely 
we none of us know very exactly what happiness is !’ 

While Gertrude was laughing, a long, low, pleasant laugh, the 
Canon and the two younger m3n came in, and involuntarily began 
to smile for very sympathy with the musical sound that was coming 
from the window. 

‘Just at the right moment!* cried Miss Douglas. ‘Do come 
here, all of you, and tell us what happiness is I Here is Thorhilda 
miserable because she can’t make out what happiness consists of. 
Isn’t it an idea 

Miss Douglas had sauntered out from the recess by the window 
as she spoke, coming forth with that half -imperious air of conscious 
fascination that became her so well. And in the background of 
her thought, of which she was also conscious, was a curious query 
as to whether in the sight of — say Percival Meredith, for instance 
—she or Thorhilda made the most attractive picture. 

They were nearly alike in height, in a certain cultured air of self- 
possession, but there, suddenly, all possibility of comparison ended. 
Their very dress told something of the radical difference of their 
natures. Miss Douglas’s costume of amber satin and black lace, 
with a profusion of yellow roses, grown under the Rectory glass, 
was sufficiently aesthetic even for the’ taste of Mr. Meredith, but it 
did not charm him as did the soft heliotrope-tinted crape that 
Thorhilda was wearing with only a few pale primrose -coloured 
pansies and some maidenhair by way of ornament. 

He felt a little proud of his superior taste. But in justice to 
him let it be said that it was not only the outer appearance of the 
woman he loved that attracted him ; this by no means. He was 
sufficiently cultured to feel the drawing of the finer nature, the 
more finished delicacy. As to whether or not he might find himself 
in perfect agreement with a deeper soul or more aspiring spirit, was 
not a question likely to trouble him as yet. So far no doubt of 
this kind had beset him. 


CHAPTER XL 

CONCERNING HAPPINESS. 

* He could afford to suffer 
With those whom he saw suffer. Heuce it came 
That in our best experience he was rich, 

And in the wisdom of our daily life.’ 

Wordsworth. 

‘Happiness!’ Percival Meredith ejaculated softly, as he drew 
away toward the window, turning with a self-possessed air, as of 


4d 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


invitation, to Thorhilda. Then lower still and more emphatically 
he said, ‘ I know what would make my happiness !’ 

But for Miss Douglas it is possible that Thorhilda’s eyes had yet 
been so far closed as to permit of her replying to this remark as it 
was intended to be replied to, with some ‘ soft nothing ’ that would 
provide an opening for a stronger and less dubious declaration. 
As it was, the nothing could not be uttered at that moment. 
Instead, Miss Theyn said aloud : 

‘ Uncle Hugh, what is your idea of happiness? You are the 
happiest man I know.’ 

A touch of gravity came over the Canon’s face, into the blue, 
kindly eyes ; the smile faded from about the mouth. 

‘ I am happy,’ he said, ‘ and I am glad to acknowledge it ; but it 
is not an unshaded happiness. How should it be, when I fear that 
— taking the world about us generally — not one person in a hundred 
could say the same thing ! ... As to defining happiness — who could 
give any true and generally acceptable definition of the word ? It 
is probable that to each human being it means some totally different 
thing. Hot one of us could legislate for another so far as merely 
human happiness is concerned.’ 

‘ I should say the best definition is “ having all one wants,’* * 
Gertrude Douglas replied with her usual readiness. 

‘ That seemfi adequate,’ said the Canon. ‘ And yet if by that you 
mean the gratification of all material desires, I can only reply that 
I know men who have not a single desire unfulfilled, but who are 
yet far enough from happiness. On the other hand, I know people, 
ground down under what meif term the heel of Fate, poor, lonely, 
bereaved, neglected, but yet as bright, as cheerful, as hopeful as any 
human being need wish to be.’ 

‘Ah, if they have hopeP said Mr. Egerton, in his usual sugges- 
tive way. 

‘ You think that is the great secret ?’ the Canon asked. ‘ And 
you^ Mr. Meredith — where does your opinion lie ?’ 

Percival smiled languidly. 

‘ Upon my word, I don’t know that I’ve ever thought of it, either 
one way or another,’ he said. ‘Just now, when Miss Douglas was 
speaking, I felt decidedly inclined to agree with her. But I should 
fancy there’s a good deal to be said for Egerton’s idea. Why not 
combine, the two— -have everything you want, and something to hope 
for besides ? Then, surely, you would touch something like real 
felicity !’ 

Canon Godfrey looked at his neighbour with something that was 
almost curiosity, and for a few seconds he made no reply. His 
best and most spiritual thoughts on this topic seemed hardly suited 
to the present environment. 

‘ It is probable,’ he said at last, ‘ that a true answer to the ques- 
tion asked in the beginning would draw upon the deepest resources 
of the nature of each one of us, and it would be no bad theme for 
an hour’s quiet meditation to try to find an answer. The queries 


CONCERNING HAPPINESS. 41 

need only be three : I. Am I happy ? II. If not, then why ? III. 
What can I do to bring happiness somewhat nearer ?’ 

‘ Let us do it now ! and each of us write down our answer P 
exclaimed Miss Douglas in her sparkling, ready way. 

But Thorhilda protested instantly. 

‘ Oh no, no !' she cried. ‘ I could not do that, not now. I could 
not make a game of it, pour passer le temps / . . . Forgive me, 
Gertrude ; but I could not, I could not to-night.’ 

‘ Oh, dear ; how terribly in earnest we are !’ exclaimed Miss 
Douglas, smiling — nay, laughing quite sweetly. ‘ One never expects 
to have to take things au serieux after dinner !’ 

‘I fear we are some of us talking great nonsense !’ interposed 
practical little Mrs. Meredith. She was being ignored in a way she 
was not accustomed to. The very set of her imposing cap upon her 
most abundant and artistic white hair told you that she was not a 
person to be overlooked. She was as full of life, of vigour, as she 
had always been, and the snow-white hair was as surprising as it 
was picturesque. In spite of it, she did not look more than forty, 
though her age was fifty-five ; and that her only son should already 
be giving himself some of the airs of a middle-aged man was not 
pleasing to her. The surest way for a stranger to reach her heart 
was to make some allusion to ‘ her brother.’ ‘ I fear we are talking 
nonsense,’ she repeated. For my part, I think happiness is very 
much a matter of mental habit. George Eliot admits something 
like that. Does she not say somewhere that “ unhappiness may 
become a habit of mind ” ? And doubtless such habits are very 
hard to break.’ 

‘ There is truth in that,’ replied the Canon. ‘ But surely, before 
sorrow can become so habitual as to be more congenial than joy, 
any human being must have bent to discipline both long and sore, 
and, in such cases, which of us, not having sounded the same depths, 
shall dare to judge ?’ 

‘ Oh, but we always do judge one another,’ the little woman broke 
in with something that seemed more like hardness than flippancy 
in her tone. ‘ We can’t help it ; and when we see people whose 
troubles are over, bfit who yet wonH forget them, you know we can’t 
help thinking they want a little more trouble to bring them to their 
senses .... Oh, don’t pretend. Canon Godfrey, you know you 
agree with me !’ 

‘ I certainly won’t pretend,’ replied the Canon, smiling gravely, 
and putting away into the background of his mind some stern ex- 
periences of which he knew only too much. ‘ No, I won’t pretend ; 
instead, I will add to what you have urged. I have a firm belief 
that a sense of happiness is a thing to be cultivated, a sense of daily 
and hourly gratitude for our human well-being, let the drawbacks 
be what they may. I fear that there are people in whom this sense 
is so imperfectly developed that it can hardly be said to exist at all ! 
.... Don’t you think that is true, Egerton ?’ 

‘ Only too true !’ responded Mr. Egerton with his usual quick 


42 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUE 


appreciation, giving you an impression of a human mind all alight 
because of the warmth of heart not hidden within. ‘ Indeed, I 
have often fancied that we might have a new Professor — a Professor 
of the Art of Happiness — a man with psychological knowledge 
enough to do for our emotional half what the physiologist is en- 
deavouring to do for our bodies ; a man who would go on his daily 
rounds to this house, or to that, as a doctor does ; finding out this 
woman’s reason for habitual sadness, the cause of that man’s gloomy 
despair ; who would analyse our feelings for us, put them into 
definite shape, and then put before us the unphilosophical view we 
were taking so strongly and clearly as to change the whole mental 
atmosphere. It might be done, surely !’ 

It was easy to see that Mr, Eger ton had only meant to be taken 
half seriously. But the Canon, listening, had passed on into earnest. 

‘ Are we not trying to do it — some of us ?’ he asked. ‘ Trying to 
do just that — to minister to minds diseased wherever we may find 
them ? It is not easy ; how should it be ? We have high authority 
for believing that each heart alone knows its own bitterness, that 
no other heart can know it, or share it. Think of Keble, too : 

‘ “ Not even the tenderest heart, and next our own, 

Knows half the reasons why we smile or sigh.” 

Of course it doesn’t ; how should it ? And the most closely- 
surrounded heart is lonelier than we know. How, then, must it be 
with those who, admittedly, have not a single soul to whom they 
can unburden themselves for an hour ? It is cases like these one 
is glad to find out, to help, not heeding the difficulties. If one may 
not create happiness, one may, at least now and then, alleviate un- 
happiness. And that is not a little ; no, it is certainly not a little 
in the sight of Him who said, “ Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the 
least of these, ye did it unto Me'' ' 

‘ Won’t you give us a sermon on happiness some Sunday, Uncle 
Hugh ?’ Thorhilda asked gravely. 

‘ Certainly I will, or else a lecture in the schoolroom some 
Wednesday evening. The latter will be better ; even on your own 
showing, my dear ! It is not so long since you admitted that 
sermons were difficult things to listen ta.’ 

‘ So they are to me I Miss Theyn admitted, preparatory to asking 
yet another leading question on the topic just begun. But before 
the question could be put into suitable and sufficiently earnest 
words, Gertrude Douglas had changed the subject altogether. It 
was a way she had. For all her tact she knew little of the decaying 
art of conversation. 

And for Percival Meredith, too, the evening was spoiled, that is, 
so far as his one intention was concerned. It yet remained to him 
to ask formally for an interview on the morrow, and though he 
thought seriously on this, he put the idea away rather impatiently 
at last. It seemed to belong to a past day ; and Percival was 
anxious, beyond even his natural years, to keep pace with the 


CONCERNING HAPPINESS. 


43 


present. The fact that he was so much older than Miss Theyn had 
more than its due weight with him. The difference would have 
been as nothing to a man who had not, in some way, passed the 
‘slow feet' of the years. 

And yet his mood that night was by no means a sad one. He 
sat alone in his smoking-room for some time, half wishing that he 
had asked Mr. Egerton to come over to Ormston for a few days, 
and half glad that he had not. 

‘ Still,’ he said to himself, ‘ when one is in a state of perplexity 
or suspense, solitude is seldom quite welcome.' Then he chose for 
himself a good cigar, and poked the fire into a blaze, and put up the 
Berlin slippers which his mother had worked with such extreme 
care to be thoroughly toasted. ‘ And yet, why should I be per- 
plexed T he said to himself when these arrangements for his 
personal comfort had been made to his satisfaction. ‘ I know what 
I wish to do, and what I mean to do ; then why perplexity ? . . . 
And as for suspense ?’ . . . and here Mr. Meredith took his cigar 
from between his lips and smiled satirically. ‘ Suspense ! with a 
lady so dainty and so shy, waiting in her utmost daintiness and 
shyness for one to throw the handkerchief. Well, it is certainly 
not — not altogether unpleasant ! One might — at Market Yarburgh 
— bide one’s time, and make a successful throw after all ! That is 
one advantage of a country place. . . . And there are others — 
several others ! . . At the present moment I am in love with 

Ormston Magna.' 


CHAPTER XIL 

IN THE VILLAGE STREET. 

* Can another be so blessed, and we so pure, that we we can offer him 
tenderness ? When a man becomes dear to me I have touched the goal of 
fortune. ’ — Emerson. 

They were roses, lovely fresh roses that .filled Miss Theyn's hands. 
She was alone in the carriage as it drove down one of the narrow 
streets of Ulvstan — streets where greengrocers lived, and pastry- 
cooks, and vendors of bathing garments. Thorhilda had no pur- 
chases to make, and the roses were intended for the matron of the 
small cottage hospital which the Canon had done so much towards 
instituting, and now maintained almost solely by his own generosity. 
But the roses never reached Mrs. Nesbitt. A tall figure, bearing a 
basket covered with seaweed, suddenly turned the corner of the 
street — a blue worsted-clad figure, with no bonnet to hide the coils 
of her beautiful chestnut hair, no hat to shade the finely-cut 
features upon which the cast of thought was already marked so 
plainly. Miss Theyn saw the girl, recognised her, and stopped the 
carriage instantly. A moment’s reflection might perhaps have 
changed her feeling, but that moment was not possible. Thorhilda 
was acting and speaking out of her first impulse. 

‘ Barbara,' she cried, holding out the big bouquet of lovely roses, 


44 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


red, creamy- white, deep crimson, and palest blush. ‘ Barbara ! will 
you have these ? They are quilie fresh. And how is your grand- 
father ? My uncle fancied he was not looking quite so well as 
usual at church on Sunday morning.’ 

The tide of rich colour that was po:iring over Bab’s face, under 
her hair, down her neck, attested the confusion to which she was 
moved by the suddenness of the encounter ; but no muscle of her 
beautiful, regular features was tortured to express her emotion. 
The girl lifted her gray-blue eyes — there was no sauciness in them 
now, no defiance ; there was nothing but a deep and deferential 
admiration — nay, it was more, affection, devotion, as Miss Theyn 
saw. And the girl stood like a statue for calmness and for dignity, 
taking the bouquet — such a one as she had never saw before — and, 
apart from the fact that Miss Theyn had given it to her, the 
roses were in themselves as precious as any pearls or diamonds 
Bab’s limited experience enabled her to imagine. The bh ^^hes 
continued to grow upon the fine face, but Bab was not speech- 
less. 

‘You mean them for me ?’ she said, using a soft, grave surprise 
that was as touching as it was welcome. Her eyes were droop ’ng 
over the flowers, her lips a little tremulous with the weight of 
pleasure. 

‘ How will I thank you. Miss Theyn ?’ she added. ‘ How will I 
ever thank you ? An’ there’s nothing I can do, nothing !’ 

‘You hardly need to thank me, not for a few flowers,’ Miss 
Theyn replied ; and it was easy to see that she was receiving almost 
as much pleasure as she was giving. ‘ Do you care for them so 
much ? I am glad of that. I can bring you some often, almost 
every time we come into Ulvstan.’ 

‘ Oh, don’t think of that. Miss Theyn,’ Bab replied, her inde- 
pendence taking quick alarm at the idea of a pleasure so spon- 
taneous being converted into a benefit ‘ to be continued.’ ‘ Don’t 
think of that,’ she said ; ‘ I’ll never forget as you’ve given me these.* 

Thorhilda was quick to understand. 

, Very well !’ she said, with one of her usual winning smiles. ‘ I 
think I know what you feel, and I will respect it. All the same, I 
may come and see you, I hope ? I have been promising myself 
that pleasure.’ 

The blush on Barbara’s face deepened ; and since the words she 
could have said — words of gratitude for even the hope of some 
crumbs of affection — since these might not be spoken, she had few 
others, and these were not adequate. 

‘ I’d like to see you,’ she said, lifting her truthful eyes to Miss 
Theyn’s face ; ‘ I’d like to see you often — every day of my life if it 
might be. But ’ 

Bab hesitated here, and looked somewhat embarrassed ; and while 
she was silent a probable cause for her sudden hesitation crossed 
Miss Theyn’s mind. 

‘You are not afraid that I might try to influence you against 


IN THE VILLAGE STREET. 


45 


your wish, are you Barbara ?’ she asked. ‘ Are you thinking, for 
instance, that I may try to persuade you to discountenance my 
brother ? Is it that ?’ 

Barbara lifted her straightforward, unsuspicious face, and some 
pain was written there, some surprise. 

‘No,’ she said, ‘I was not thinking o’ that, not then. But since 
yon have spoke of it of yoursel’. Miss Theyn, would you mind 
sayin’ more — all you think, indeed ?’ 

‘ All that I think on the matter,’ Thorhilda said earnestly ; ‘that 
would be difficult. Still, T should like you to know the truth. . . . 
Let us speak exactly. I went over to the Grange one day on pur- 
pose to speak to my brother about you ; it was the day after I had 
seen you on the beach. I went to talk to him about his intercourse 
with you, to ask him his wishes and intentions, to beg him to con- 
sider seriously what he was doing. But afterward when I came 
away, and was trying to remember what I had said, I was surprised 
to find that I had said so little of all that I had meant to say. . . . 
Life is seldom cut and squared to one’s anticipations. Some new 
experience, giving rise to some new feeling, does away with all the 
old conclusions, and one is left perplexed.^ 

Bab was listening, fully understanding, and Miss Theyn knew 
that she understood. Half unaware, an opinion as to Bab’s quick 
and strong intellectual capacity was growing within her with every 
turn of the conversation. It was not what the girl said, but what 
the expression of her face said for her. 

‘ Let us speak exactly, you said just now. Miss Theyn and 
Bab’s repetition of the phrase, her very intonation of it, might 
have been amusing at another time. ‘ Let us speak exactly, you 
say. Well, then, you did wish to persuade your brother from 
thinkin’ o’ me. You went to the Grange on purpose ?’ 

‘ Yes,’ Miss Theyn replied, sorry for the sudden sorrow she saw 
in BarlDara’s eyes and about the finely-curved, sensitive mouth. 
Barbara remained quite silent. 

‘ I did go on that errand,’ Miss Theyn repeated. ‘But I must 
tell you all ; I must tell you that I found my brother’s mind 
so completely made up that no influence of mine availed to move 
him from his purpose for a second. ... We are a stubborn race, 
we of Garlaff, and we seldom change.’ 

‘ Then you failed of your erran’ ! Bab asked quietly. 

‘Yes } utterly,’ 

‘ An’ you were sorry ?’ 

‘ How shall I reply to that, Barbara ? I wish to tell the truth, 
and I do not wish to pain you.’ 

‘ And the truth is ’ 

‘ The truth is simply this,’ interrupted Miss Theyn, not liking to 
see any longer the sad, heart-hungry look on Bab’s face— it was 
like watching the going down of some emotional thermometer, 
marking the degrees of lowering disappointment. ‘The truth is 
this, that I do not at present understand myself, my own feeling in 


46 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


the matter. . . I suppose I had some regret ; I suppose I did feel 

some annoyance at my brother’s strong determination.’ 

‘ Thank you, Miss Theyn,’ Barbara said very calmly. ‘ I knew 
you’d speak plain, an’ I’m glad you spoke to-day. . . . An’ thank 
you again for the roses. ^Twas good of you, an’ kind, to give 
them to me.’ 

Barbara’s face had grown paler as she turned away ; her look 
was grave to dignity, and her bow graceful enough for any lady in 
the land. Thorhilda bowed and smiled, then gave a word to the 
coachman, who was glad that his impatient horses should at last be 
delivered from that long stay in the village street. ‘ Home,’ Miss 
Theyn said, throwing herself back among the rugs and cushions, 
and yielding herself up to feelings of mingled dissatisfaction and 
self-reproach. In wishing to be perfectly truthful, had she gone 
beyond the truth ? Had she been quite careful enough of the 
evidently too-sensitive feelings of another ? Barbara Burdas had 
touched her, appealed to the yet but half-awakened sense of 
humanity that was struggling for existence within her, and she 
could not put away the appeal. 

‘ I wish I had said a word more — but one word !’ she exclaimed 
half audibly. ‘ Perhaps I may say it yet — I must. That sad look 
of Barbara’s will certainly haunt me so long as it is unsaid 1’ 

CHAPTER XIII. 

EXTENUATING CIRCUMSTANCES. . 

• Well you may, you must, set down to me, 

Love that was hfe, — life that was love.* 

Kobert Brownino. 

Was it a little unfortunate that Hartas should take it into his head 
to go down to Ulvstan that same evening? He had not seen 
Barbara for some days ; he was feeling lonely and unhappy, and 
also unhopeful ; and the unexpected darkness and chilliness of the 
summer night helped his feeling of depression. And he soon dis- 
cerned that Bab was not likely to put it away that evening. He 
recognised at once that she was in some highly- wrought mood not 
to be accounted for by failure or success in gathering her tale 
of limpets. 

He had been waiting patiently below the little wooden gallery for 
some time when Bab appeared. He knew her ways. She would 
come out to the spring by the corner of the house for water, or to 
close the old green window shutters, or to stand and look at the 
sky and breathe the fresh sea-air for a few minutes, as was her 
wont during the indoor evenings she bore so badly. Hartas did not 
dare, now or ever, to do anything but wait quite silently ; and he 
had been waiting for more than an hour when at last he heard the 
click of the wooden latch. Barbara came out, stood at the top of 
the five little steps, listening, as it were. How was it that she 


EXTENUATING CIRCUMSTANCES. 


47 


seemed to know so quickly that someone was there, that that 
someone was Hartas Theyn ? She certainly could not see him in 
the dim light that was where he stood. 

‘ It’s late for you to be so far fra Garlaff,’ she said, coming to the 
edge of the little wooden platforn and bending over. Hartas could 
see her now in the light from the window, and he could hear her 
voice, the unencouraging tone of it, the absence of all welcome in it, 
of all pleasure. And yet what was the meaning of that slight diffi- 
culty that seemed almost like tremulousness for the moment? 
Hartas was perplexed. 

‘ It’s none so late,’ he replied, putting much emotion into the 
quiet emotionless words, and drawing nearer to the gallery as he 
spoke. ‘ It’s none so late. Why there’s lights all over the place yet.’ 

‘ The lights i’ the windows o’ fashionable folk,’ Bab replied, with 
unaccustomed satire. ‘ They’re goin’ to bed, worn out wi’ lissenin’ 
to the band all the mornin’, an’ goin’ up the cliff side i’ the lift to 
lunch. An’ then they get more tired wi’ drivin’ aboot i’ carriages 
all the afternoon ; an’ they’ve got to sit two hours at dinner, an’ 
then there’s the band again. Oh, it mun be a wearyin’ life, that o’ 
theirs. . . . Yet, after all, I’d like to try it for aboot a fortnight.’ 

‘ A fortnight ! You’d never stand it that long, Barbara,’ Hartas 
said, speaking in far gentler tones than Bab herself had used. ‘ But 
I don’t wonder that you should wish for rest, for change of some 
kind. I often think of you, an’ of the way you work, morn, noon, 
an’ night. It would kill most women.’ 

Barbara laughed, not a pleasant laugh to the ears of Hartas 
Theyn. 

‘It ud’ kill some men,’ she said ; ‘ it might even do ’em harm to 
hev to think of it. An’ Ah don’t wonder at you bein’ struck wi’ 
the sight o’ work of any kind !’ 

Then she stopped, and presently added with even more of bitter- 
ness in her tone : 

‘ If you’ve wondered about me, I’ve wondered about you, an’ not 
a little ! How do you ever get through the days ? I should think 
every day was like a week ; an’ ever}'- week like a year. Oh, me ! 
I can tell you I hev wondered how you live you life, an’ you a 
man !’ 

Hartas was blushing under the cover of the night ; Bab’s too 
sharp and eager words smote upon his own consciousness of the 
unworthiness of his existence so that every sentence hurt him like 
a blow. And yet there was something to be said in answer. 
Mastering as well as he could the hot tide of anger that was pour- 
ing over him, making him quiver to the very lips, he strove to make 
reply.' 

‘ Every word you’ve said shows how little you know o’ the truth,’ 
he began, using more impressiveness in his tones than she had 
ever heard before. ‘ I’ve been idle anuff, most o’ my life, I admit 
that, an’ not without regret neither ; but there was something to be 
said for me, if there’d been anybody to say it. I’d no eddication, 


48 


IN EXCHANGE FOE A SOUE 


because when I was a little fellow I didn’t want none, an’ liked 
better bein’ all day long about the Grrange, wi’ the men, an’ horses, 
an’ cattle. An’ instead of anyone forcin’ me to go to school, my 
father was proud o’ me, because, bein’ so little, I rebelled and 
wouldn’t go. An’ they used to set me upon the table, my uncle an’ 
him, an’ make me tell folk what I thowt o’ the schoolmaster, an* 
when I said some impident thing, they’d all burst out i’ laughter, 
as if I was the cleverest child i’ the world. 

‘ An’ then by the time I was older, my father had grown in- 
different, an’ didn’t care how things went, nor what I did, nor what 
nobody did. All he wanted was to be let alone. An’ he dreaded 
when folks like the Canon or Mrs. Kerne came botherin’ about me 
An’ because I was ignorant and uncultured, an’ couldn't talk to 
them as an equal, an’ felt nought but embarrassment, I grew to 
hate the sight o’ them ; an’ the hatred was like anger, an’ made me 
insolent. An’ all the while I was as miserable as I could be ; for 
the home’s miserable anuff, I can tell you, and always has been. 
But ’twas never till I’d seen you, Bab, ’at I knew what shame was. 
Even when you were a little thing toilin’ and moilin’ on the scaur all 
day, I’d ha’ given the world to ha’ come an’ helped you a bit, as that 
David Andoe used to do, as he does yet maybe, for aught I know.’ 

‘ I’m noan one to need help fra no man,’ Barbara said, softened 
into replying with less of bitterness in her tone. ‘ An’ if all be 
true as you say, why mebbe one ought to ha’ been more sorry nor 
vexed wi’ you. But it’s noan over late i’ life, it could never be over 
late to begin to mend.' 

‘ An’ that’s just what I’m trying to do ; what I’ve been tryin’ to 
do this year past, ever since I came to know more of you and your 
life. But there’s nobody to see any change in me, or if they do see 
any it’s only something to be sneered at, an’ there’s nought i’ the 
world so bad to bear as a sneer because your tryin’ to get yourself 
out o’ the old groove.’ 

Bab did not reply for a moment or two, then she said eagerly : 

‘ Does your sister sneer at you, the one that lives at the Kectory ? 
Does she sneer when she knows you’re tryin’ to make a new 
beginnin’ ?’ 

Hartas felt his answer too deeply to have it on his tongue very 
readily. 

‘ Her sneer !’ he said at last ; ‘ her sneer at anything good ! Eh, 
but the very question shows how little you know her. ... I don’t 
know much of her myself, an’ mebbe I might say more’s the pity ” 
if I knew all it meant. An’ it’s not her fault ’at we’re little more 
than strangers. I didn’t want to know her, or to see her ; an’ for 
years I took some pains to let her know that I didn’t. An’ yet 
she’s never resented it i’ no way ; mebbe she knows ’at there’s 
things to be said on the other side. They’ve talked against her at 
the Grange, and said as how she was “ stuck up an’ of all bad 
things to bear, that’s about the worst to me. An’ I believed them ; 
an’ when I heard her talk it seemed to me ’at her way o’ speakin’ 


EXTENUATING CIRCUMSTANCES. 


49 


was mincin’, an’ over fine ; an’ her ways was far o’er fastidious for 
a rough chap like me. An’ at last she was no more to me nor a 
stranger I’d never heard tell of. . . . But now,’ and here Hartas’s 
voice changed and softened — ‘ now it seems as if she’d been carin’ 
all the while, an’ feelin’ lonely, an’ wishin’ only as she’d had so much 
as one real brother or sister i’ the woiid. I’d never dreamed of it, 
it’s all new ; an’ —well, if the truth must be told, I’m feeling as if 
there was nought I wouldn’t do to please her. No, there’s nought 
but one thing, an’ that she’ll never ask, no, she’ll never ask it, Bab, 
if you let her know you as I know you. She’d never dream o’ 
wishin’ anybody to make such a sacrifice o’ their whole life as that.’ 

For a little while Barbara was thoughtful and silent. 

‘ No, your sister would never ask it,’ she said, speaking in a low, 
fervid way, rather as if she spoke to herselE for her own strengthen- 
ing than as one speaking to another. ‘ She’d noan do that — not of 
her own free will ; but what she’d never ask for one might offer 
her, mebbe. ... Or no, it ’ud ha’ to be done without words ! Any- 
how, for her^ one would do it, an’ willingly, — ay, more than 
willingly.* 

CHAPTER XIV. 

THE STORY OF A MISTAKE, 

•And soon we feel the want of one kind hOart 
To love what’s well, and to forgive what’s ill 
In us — that heart we play for at all risks.’ 

Festus, P. J. Bailey. 

Hartas quite understood ; comprehending not only the meaning 
of the woman he loved, but the depth of her strong determination. 
She was capable of this thing that she was evidently revolving in 
her mind ; and the idea thus newly and suddenly presented to him 
was sufficiently disturbing. 

‘ When have you seen my sister last ?’ he asked, after a pause 
which had given him time to view the situation with some dismay. 

‘ This afternoon,’ replied Bab without hesitation. ‘ I’d been 
over to Danesborough for flithers ; and had come back to XJlvstan 
by the train . . . Miss Theyn was i’ the street, in her carriage. 
She’d her hands full o’ roses ; an’ she gave ’em to me.’ 

‘ An’ you’d sacrifice, not only yourself but me, because o’ that I’ 
Hartas exclaimed, the hastiness in histone betraying much that the 
merciful darkness was hiding. But though Bab could not discern 
the hot tide of colour that had risen to his face, she felt the change 
in his accents, and was silent. 

‘ Because of a handful o’ flowers that never cost her a ha’penny, 
an’ likely anuff was never meant for you, you’re willin’ to throw 
me an’ all my hopes overboard for ever I . . . Good heavens, what 
strange sort o’ stuff a woman’s made of I’ 

Even as he spoke he remembered the day on the beach, when, 
for all his natural want of perspicaciousness, he had discovered that 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL 


5d 

his sister IjucI suddenly won more of Bab’s favour and affection than 
he had been able to win by the effort of months, nay, of years. At 
that moment he bad been half glad, half proud ; but he saw it all 
in a new light now ; and the vision exasperated him, though he 
could hardly have told whether it was his sister or Barbara Burdas 
against whom his anger was turned. He had not been particularly 
hopeful before ; but this new fear seemed to destroy the hope he 
had had, and to do vhis with a completeness for which he himself 
could not have accounted. 

‘ I didn’t come down here to hev no words,* he said, remembering 
sadly enough the loving, longing feeling that had beset him as he 
walked down from the Grange ; a longing to pour out all his heart 
to Bab ; to tell her of his new consciousness of wasted life, of his 
remorse and repentance, of his only half-comprehended desire for 
betttjr things. For him, as for most human beings, a true love was 
proving that it held the key to truer life, to fuller light. He had 
not attained to anything yet ; but knowledge was coming to him 
hourly, that attainment was not only desirable, not only possible, 
but imperative, if he would live at all, if he would not remain in 
that slough wherein he had lain so long. He put it down to the 
fact of his ignorance that all seemed so obscure, so undefined, that 
instead of some clear aim and rule to guide him he had only a more 
or less vague longing for better things — a longing that seemed to be 
bound up inseparably with his desire to win the love of Barbara 
Burdas. 

‘ The cygnet finds the water, but the man 
Is born in ignorance of his element, 

And feels out blind at first, disorganized 
By sin i’ the blood — his spirit-insight dulled 
And crossed by his sensations. Presently 
He feels it quicken in the dark sometimes, 

When mark, be reverent, be obedient, 

For such dumb motions of imperfect life 
Are oracles of vital Deity, 

Attesting the hereafter.’ 

The aspiration which had come to Hartas Theyn did not touch 
any far-off future ; it was held by strong bonds to the disappoint- 
ing and cruel-seeming present ; and out of all his thinking, and 
feeling, and enduring, hardly anything could be put into words. 
Bab understood how it was with him ; and the long silence did not 
seem long to her, the torrent of her own thought and emotion was 
too full and rapid for that, and certainly neither of them dreamed 
that another was impatient of the pause, that another listened for 
the next word — listened breathlessly and eagerly. Having hitherto 
caught only the tones of the speakers, and perceiving that these did 
not betoken the friendliness of feeling believed on the Forecliff to 
exist between Barbara Burdas .and the Squire’s son, it was no 
wonder that Nan Tyas should be drawn by an irresistible curiosity 
to listen. Nan was not at any time what might be called an over- 
scrupulous woman. Though she had now been married some six 


THE STORY OF A MISTAKE. 


51 


months, she was still little more than a girl ; and being David 
Andoe’s sister she had especial reasons for wishing to know the 
truth. 

She was not a loving woman. Passion of various kinds, she 
might already be acquainted with, but the gentleness of true affec- 
tion was as strange and unaccustomed to her as to any of her 
ungentle family. Yet she had some liking for her brother David, 
a liking made up of regard for his forbearance, of respect for his 
indomitable high principle, for his unswerving effort after a 
perfectly patient endurance of trials which she but half understood 
to be trying at all. She knew, as she could not fail to do, of his 
unhappy love for Barbara Burdas, nad in this matter her sympathy, 
if indeed ‘ sympathy ^ her fierce and narrow feeling could be called, 
was all for him. 

To-night accident had led her round by old Ephraim’s cottage, or 
the ‘ Sagged Hoose,’^ as it was called upon the Forecliff, from the 
fact of it having suffered so severly in a landslip as to have lost all 
claim to perpendicularity. Strangers looked on it with amazement 
when they knew that it was inhabited by a family of respectable 
fisher-folk. But Nan was not thinking of the house, or of its 
crookedness, as she went rapidly by the path from the Andoes’ 
home to her own, a path that led behind the Sagged House, and 
away across the waste sea-front of the rock to her own cottage on 
the southern side. It was late, half -past ten at least ; and though 
Nan was alone she had no expectation of anything happening, least 
of all anything that would enable her to carry a word of comfort 
to her brother David. 

Nan was already weary of standing there by the tarred paling 
that ran along the edge of what had once been a stone- quarry, and 
was just above old Ephriam’s cottage. She knew that the Squire’s 
son was still there ; she could discern the outline of his figure as he 
leaned upon a solitary gate-post, from which the gate had gone long 
ago. Barbara, being on the little wooden gallery, was out of sight, 
though not out of hearing. 

‘I didn’t come down to hev no words,’ Hartas had said at last, 
speaking with much more of sullen anger in his tone than was in 
his heart. 

Bab, feeling sorry for him, and being in pain and perplexity for 
herself, made no reply. 

Naturally the mind of each had wandered far enough from the 
point touched at that moment ; still Hartas seemed as if he would 
take up the conversation where it had been left off. 

‘ No ; I didn’t come down here to quarrel,’ he said, in gentler and 
truer tones. (Nan Tyas could distinguish every syllable.) ‘ I came 

♦ Sagged (according to Eobinson’s Yorkshire ‘ Glossary ’) means ‘ bulged 
out at the side, as a bowing wall.’ But the word is used in other ways. For 
instance, a woman’s gown, drawn at the seams, will be said to ‘ sag.’ So, too 
Shakespeare in Macbeth v. hi. : — 

‘ The heart I bear 
Shall never sag with doubt.’ 




52 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


for a purpose very different fra that, Barbara ; an’ I can’t go no 
roundabout way to it neither. . . . You know what it is ! If I Ve 
never asked you the same question in plain words before, I’ve all 
but done it many a time, when you’ve stopped me, either by one 
means or another ; an’ I must ask it now. An’ I'll say the truth as 
to what I believe. I don’t think ’at you care so much for me, not 
yet ; but I do think ’at you’ll come to care, if you’ll let me hev the 
chance o’ winriin’ you. Hev I made a mistake, Bab, i’ thinkin’ ’at 
you don’t alius look at me so coldly now as you used to do ? I’ve 
fancied so sometimes lately ; an’ I’ve been that glad when you 
seemed to give me a kinder look ’at I’ve hardly known whether I 
were walkin’ on the ground or on the air. It’s none my way to 
talk wild, as you know ; or I’d say things stronger nor that. Mebbe 
I may say ’em yet if you give me the answer I want. . . . Bab, 
you will say it ? You’ll be my wife ? I know you will ! You’ll 
never cut a fellow off frev all the hope he hes i’ the world ? An’ 
you shan’t repent ; no, never for a moment so long as you live, if 
I can help it.’ 

Still there was silence. 

Barbara’s heart was beating with such wildness as it had perhaps 
never known before ; and the tears would have come but for the 
strong forcefulness exerted to keep them back. Never yet, never 
for one moment, had temptation been so strong ; never before had 
it seemed so light a matter that Miss Theyn should some day blush 
for her ignorance, that Miss Theyn’s kind eyes should droop in 
sorrow because of her awkwardness, her ill-bred ungraciousness. 
This was the sole hindrance on the surface of her thought ; but 
there was more below, much that she only half comprehended. 
What was it, that something that spoke of some light to be had, 
some good to be gained, some platform to be reached, the lower 
step of which might be reached by even a gatherer from the limpet 
rocks ? The one thing that was clear to her in this perplexing 
moment was that she must at least wait, that she must not obey the 
longing— it was pressing upon her somewhat heavily to-night— the 
longing to lay down her life’s hard burden, and rest upon the deep 
and true affection offered to her. Bab did not doubt its truth. 

If she had spoken openly, she would have said : 

‘I do love you, even now ; and my love for \ou is sweet to me ; 
yours for me is comforting — sustaining. Love is more than all I 
had dreamed or imagined. But something within me is incredulous 
of so great a good, and will not let me accept it.’ 

It even seemed as if in this strong and strange contest Bab’s 
courage was giving way — the one great quality which had seemed 
tc place her so high above her fellows, leaving her timid and help- 
less as women are supposed always to be. And inevitably Hartas 
Theyn discerned the fact. We hide nothing from each other. 
Dissimulation at' its best is never more than a partial success. 

‘ You’ve no answer, Bab ?’ he asked, with tender surprise in his 
tone ; but intense feeling was underneath. 


THE STORY OF A MISTAKE. 53 

For all his fever of anxiety he could yet be glad that no quick 
jind emphatic denial had swept his hope to the ground. 

At last Barbara spoke. 

‘No/ she said. And Hartas knew, and Nan Tyas knew, that he 
voice was the voice of one subduing a very passion of sobs and 
tears. ‘No, I’ve no answer. . . . That’s just the t uth — I can’t 
make no answer.’ 

In one moment, one misguided moment later, Hartas Theyn Was 
beside her on the little wooden gallery, his arm was round her, her 
face was raised to his, all unawares and against her will. For one 
not-to-be-forgotten moment, Barbara Burdas was overmastered by 
the mingled forces of love and strength. 

And Nan Tyas knew it all, stooping there in the darkness, 
bending forward with her ear turned in the direction of the cottage 
door, and her face hot with the strain of listening. She knew 
everything. 

‘ I have no answer,’ Bab had said. 

‘ Then I’ll fake an answer !’ Hartas Theyn exclaimed in the first 
fiush of his momentary success. 

But the next moment Barbara had freed herself with a single 
strong effort. Standing apart, alone, conscious to her finger-tips of 
a new shame, a new and unexpected humiliation, speaking louder 
than before, and far more angrily than she knew : 

‘ 2 'ake an answer !’ she exclaimed. And Hartas Theyn could see 
the flashing of her eyes in the faint light from the window ; he 
could discern in her tone the surprise and indignation that had 
come upon her with his ill-judged action. ‘ You’ll take an answer !’ 
she repeated. ‘ Eh, but it’s little you know o’ me, if you think I’m 
one to be treated so ! . . . No, Mr. Theyn, I’ll find an answer noo, 
since you’re so eager for one ; an’ it’s soon said. You asked me to 
be your wife, an’ I say, iVb, never/ I’d marry no man ’at showed 
me' so plain he’d no more respect for me nor that! There’s my 
answer ! . . . Good-night.’ 

Nan Tyas heard the quick bolting of the cottage door, the sharp 
rattle of the window-blind as it dropped over the panes. Then 
she knew that Hartas Theyn walked away with slow and heavy 
step and frequent pauses, but not pausing near enough or long 
enough to hear the sound that Nan heard later — the sound of 
subdued and bitter weeping. 

‘ She’ll noan wed /lim,’ Nan said to herself, as she went home- 
ward. ‘ Her pride ’ll never stand such ways as that. There’s more 
nor a chance for David yet ; as he shall know afore he’s a day 
older r 


54 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


CHAPTER XY. 

SOME ART CRITICS. 

‘ Humanity is great ; 

And if I would not rather pore upon 
An ounce of ugly, common, human dust, 

An artisan’s palm, or a peasant’s brow, 

Unsmooth, ignoble, save to me and God, 

Than track old Nilus to his silver roots, 

Set it down 

As weakness— strength by no means.' 

E. B. Beowning. 

All the morning, since the first ebbing of the tide, Damian Alden- 
mede had been sitting there under the cliffs beyond Yarva Ness, his 
easel with its broad canvas before him, a white umbrella behind 
him, a carefully kept and curiously-set palette, with the usual sheaf 
of brushes in his liand. A noticeable figure he made in that wide 
stretch of land and sea. Usually the scene was a more or less 
dreary one, inclining to a melancholy speculativeness, or to un- 
hopeful acquiescence ; but no such mood might beset any responsive 
human being on a morning so free, so fresh, so blue, so sunny as 
this. Damian Aldenmede’s tall, thin frame was not the home of a 
soul that could be called unresponsive. 

After working with more than his usual rapidity for a couple of 
hours, putting on canvas, with what truth and poetry of truth were 
in his power, the great gray nab that ran out from the land, and 
crossed a considerable stretch of the sea, he was now resting awhile, 
surveying the result of that long spell of sea-born inspiration. He 
was not wholly satisfied ; what true creator is ever satisfied with 
his own creation ? 

In all the Bible is there no more striking and suggestive passage 
than that one to be read in the Book of Genesis : ‘ And it repented 
the Lord that He had made man on the earth ; and it grieved H4m 
at His heart.’ 

This is startling ; but it is entirely conceivable ; and a man might 
find motive-power enough for a change of life, were he to try but 
for one hour to grasp all that that strange and awful repentance 
must have meant. It must have involved and included so much 
more than we can even dream of here. The repentance of an All- 
knowing and All-foreseeing God ! We imagine it to be contradic- 
tory ; and so it is to our finite reasoning and understanding. Our 
utmost effort can bring about no satisfactory reconciliation, and few 
altogether reverent minds could wish to attempt any such reconcile- 
ment. The great hereafter, heaven itself, is made more attractive 
by the thought of all we have to learn ; and if to this you join the 
added power of learning and discerning that we may hope for, we 
get a brighter and more living glance and grasp of that eternity 
which, being in a large sense vague, may not be entirely unappalling 
to some, and those not the worst, not the most dead to aspiration. 

By the ancient Greeks — the worthiest and best of them — the 


SOME ART CRITICS. 


55 

pleasures of the intellect were accounted the highest of all, the 
pleasures of learning, of knowing, of thinking, of discovering ; 
and this pleasure was inherent, not heightened in any way by the 
display of knowledge as an accomplishment. So far as these 
authors and thinkers of that olden time knew they were wise and 
right ; but the pleasures of the still finer, the still higher part of 
man’s nature had not then been made manifest as they were to be 
made by the development of a new dispensation. This higher 
discerning was reserved for the followers of One despised, rejected, 
misunderstood in His own day, save by a responsive few. We, the 
inheritors of these few, seeing by their light, discern more clearly 
the nature of the most perfect felicity possible to man, and there- 
fore have keener appetence for it, keener hope and expectancy. 
By this hope we . live. The miserable man is he whose hope is 
dulled— dulled by care, by sin, or by neglect of spiritual culture. 
Does it need the combined effort of the three to destroy the soul 
meant for far other than destruction ? That they run one into 
another in ways unexpected, undreamed, we all of us know ; and 
those who deny most strenuously the existence of any tempting 
personal spirit of evil, must yet admit the existence of some in- 
genious and most forcible laws of deterioration. . . . These we do 
not understand ; how should we ? But we can at least believe in 
them sufficiently to dread a time when disbelief may be no longer 
possible. 

It is not the man who, to use an easy saying, is ‘born good^ — to 
whom purity and uprightness are as first instincts ; it is not this 
man who can enter fully into the life of him whose soul is weighted 
from the beginning with strong impulses toward evil that beset 
him, body and mind. And here is the root of much of our harsh 
judgment. We see the error, but not the strange and peculiar 
force of circumstance that led the erring man into sin before he 
was well aware. We see his fall, but not the long and sore strife 
with overwhelming temptation. 

But while we are thanking God that we are not as this man, it 
may be that God Himself is stooping from heaven to comfort him 
with all Divine and most efficacious comfort. 

‘ Which of My Saints, of the men possessed by the Prayer-spirit, 
from Abraham to Gordon, was without spot or stain ? Which of 
them was unblessed by repentance ? Was not the oft and grievously 
erring David a man after My own heart ? Did not Magdalen love 
the more because there was in her so much to be forgiven ? Is it 
not an echo, and also a proof of the felicitous bliss of My Divine 
Forgiveness, that there is no finer and more perfect human emotion 
than that between two loving human souls, one of which receives 
full forgiveness from the other ?’ 

So one might hear, if one listened, with other words more con- 
soling still. Damian Aldenmede had heard. 

‘ The upright man is dear to Me,* saith One. ‘ The man who 
loves much is dearer yet.* 


56 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUE 


j^nd there is even another. ‘ To him that overcometh will I grant 
to ^it with Me in My Throne.’ 

Him that overcometh ! This is the touchstone. The man whose 
way is plain, and smooth, and easy ; into whose life no question as 
to strife, as to yielding, has ever entered ; this man may not he 
shut out from the kingdom, since such slight test was given him 
whereby he might prove himself worthy to enter. But not for him 
the shout that shall ^o up before the Throne of God as greeting to 
th' se who have come out of great tribulation. 

‘ In My Father’s house are many mansions.’ 

You had only to look once into the face of Damian Aldenmede 
to see that he was now, at least in one sense, like the Master whoni 
he would fain follow, were it but afar off. At the first sight you 
knew that you looked upon a man over whose head the waves and 
storms of life had swept pitilessly. 

It was a calm enough face now — indeed, the most forcible im- 
pression you received was one of a human being, strong and 
tranquil ; and in the same moment you saw that both the strength 
and the tranquillity were of the kind that come by long and sore 
strife. 

Contradictions were not wanting — they seldom are on the face of 
man or woman of middle age. The young, who have not entered 
into the fight, the old, who have fought and won — or lost — these 
may impress you with unity, with consistency — seldom others. 

On this artist’s face, for instance, except when in perfect repose, 
the extreme gravity would be half betrayed by certain curves that 
declared him not incapable of humour ; and the stern, ascetic lines 
about the mouth were somewhat neutralised by the tenderness of 
the deep, sad, gray eyes — eyes that were sure to be uplifted to 
yours, at first with something of inquiry in them, of searching, as 
if once more he were asking the question : 

‘ Shall one find human faith on this human earth ?’ 

It is Emerson who says : ‘ I confess to an extreme tenderness 
of nature on this point. It is almost dangerous to me to “ crush 
the sweet poison of misused wine” of the affections. A new 
person is to me a great event, and hinders me from sleep.’ 

Not less keenly had Damian Aldenmede felt on this matter ; and, 
need one say it, all his life he had suffered in proportion to the 
depth and keenness of his feeling... The assurance most present 
with him now was that they are happiest who expect least. 

In one thing at least he was fortunate, in being able to gratify 
his instinct for movement whenever the desire came upon him. If 
he had not wealth, then poverty did not chain him by the feet. If 
no "uies of human love held him by beseeching hands, still he had 
freedom and power to secure the solitude he had come to prize so 
greatly. And he was not incapable of weighing, of duly apprecia- 
ting the good he had. 

A s he sat there on the point of rock by his easel, looking out 
over the rippling tide, soothed by its murmuring, soothed yet more 


SOME ART CRITICS, 


S7 


by the far stretches of blue sky, of bluer distant sea, the extreme 
gravity of his face seemed to relax a little ; then his head was bent 
listenmgly. By-and-by he smiled, and the austere face became 
winning, beautiful, pathetic, in the light of one of the most human 
of human pleasures. 

It was only a song that he listened to, a doleful ballad of an 
older day, sung by girls’ voices, that rose and fell upon the breeze, 
now seeming near, now floating afar. At last the words became 
plainly discernible ; 

And tell that ladye of my woo, 

And tell her of my love ; 

And give to her thys golden ring 
My tender fay the to prove.' 

This was only sung by one or two voices ; next there came a 
little chatting and some laughing ; then a chorus came that might 
have been sung by a dozen voices at least : 

Yee fayre dames of merry e Englande, 

Faste youre teares must posure ; 

For manye’s the valiante Englishman 
That yee sail see noe more.’ 

All the voices joined in this, with some attempt at part-singing — 
crude, unscientifle, yet with a certain most attractively wild sweet- 
ness. This was followed by a single voice, young, clear, fresh, as 
the wind from the sea. Now and then it seemed to vibrate 
tremblingly, as if to the pathos of the words of the old ballad : 

‘JFayre Alice shee sat her on the grounds, 

And never a worde shee spake ; 

But like the pale image dyd shee looke, 

For her hearte was nighe to breake. 

‘ The rose that once soe ting’d her cheeke, 

Was nowe, alas I noe more ; 

But the whiteness of her lillye skin 
Was fayrer than before.’ 

By this time the girls had corhe to the angle of the rock ; there 
were seven of them, tall, straight, strong-limbed fisher- girls, each 
with her basket of limpets on her head ; each dressed in her own 
half -masculine, wholly picturesque costume. They made a striking 
group as they came swiftly onward, with swinging gait, and gay, 
fearless countenance. 

Damian Aldenmede, comparatively young though he might be, 
and certainly strong, was yet half envious of the quick, vivid, 
energetic life displayed in every movement made by these fisher- 
girls of Ulvstan Bight. He had discerned them before they were 
aware of his presence under the tall, blue-black rock. 

It was the white umbrella, the easel with its wide canvas, that 
attracted their attention first. Then came a momentary pause in 
the singing, an echo of faint, surprised laughter j but almost im- 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


58 

mediately the singing was heard again. By this time it was the 
turn of the soloist, who was no other than Barbara Burdas. 

‘ And nowe came horsemen to the towne. 

That the prynce had sent with speede ; 

With tydings to Alice that hee dyd live 
To ease her of her dreade.’ 

* # * # # 

‘ But the page hee saw the lovelye Alice 
In a deepe, deepe grave let downe, 

And at her heade a greene turfe ylade, 

And at her feete a stone.’ 

So Barbara sang, in impressive, thrilling tones, that rose and 
died away with a yjlaintiveness that seemed to belong not altogether 
to the words, nor yet to the quaint and simple music, but to some 
special quality in the singer’s own nature. She came onward, a 
little in advance of the others, singing as she came, and bearing her 
burden of limpets — some three stones of them — on her head, with 
a kind of unconscious consciousness of grace, the grace of strength 
in her bearing. 

Damian Aldenmede, watching her, seemed to be almost perplexed 
in his surprise. The possibilities of form, of action, of attitude, 
were all awakened in him with that new forcefulness of impression 
which is so much to an artist. It is in such moments that he lives 
and moves — moves rapidly onward. 

Yet nearer the girls came, smiling archly, singing — 

‘ Yee fayre dames of merrye Englande/ 

lifting coquettish glances to the face of the artist who sat quietly 
by his easel, a man too grave, too long and too deeply tried, to be 
abashed in such a crisis as this. He raised his eyes to meet the 
eyes of the tall central figure — it was nearer to him than the others 
— and almost on the instant he became aware that this was not a 
first meeting. Apparently they were both aware of it. 

But the others did not perceive. They were finishing their chorus 
in a light, easy way. With the last words they stopped by the 
easel, looked at the artist with eager, interested, surprised looks ; 
then they turned to the nab in the distance, glancing from it to the 
canvas and back again with the glance supposed to be peculiar to 
practised and competent judges. 

‘ It’s noan sa bad !’ said Nan Tyas encouragingly. 

‘’Tisn’t black anuff,’ Marget Scurr interposed. 

‘ It’s ower far awaay,’ remarked Nell Furniss. 

Still the artist sat there with seeming impassiveness, listening to 
these untrained, yet perhaps not quite untrue art-critics ; but since 
their remarks were in nowise addressed to him he could hardly 
make reply. He no tic I many things as he sat there ; amongst 
others, that Barbara Burdas had no word to say, critical or other. 
She was looking at the sketch with eager eyes, with parted lips, and 
-^ith an air of intense interest, which naturallj^ increased the artist’^ 


SOME ART CRITICS, 


S9 


interest in her. Meantime her companions were moving away, 
impatient for their noonday cup of tea and freshly caught herring. 

‘ Yall be cornin’ when yer ready, Bab !’ Nan Tyas said, looking 
back with a meaning, mocking glance, which Bab returned with a 
steady look of warning. Damian Aldenmede saw and understood. 
This woman was not to be trifled with, even by her own com- 
panions. Her look, the power in it, the unconscious demand of 
self-respect it betrayed, increased his sudden regard for her, and 
awoke the desire to know more of her that was later to lead to such 
unexpected results. How frequently in our life does a look have 
the dynamic force of an event I No observant human being has 
lived his life without being aware of the fact that much is said, 
much done, in which neither word nor action has any part. 


CHAPTER XVL 

BARBARA. BETRAYS HERSELF. 

* The effect of the indulgence of this human affection is a certain cordial 
exhilaration. In poetry and in common speech the emotions of benevolence 
and complacency which are felt towards others are hkened to the material 
effects of fire, so swift, or much more swift, more active, more cheering, are 
the fine inward irradiations. From the highest degree of passionate love, to 
the lowest degree of good-wiU, they make the sweetness of life. ’ — Emerson. 

Another moment or two they stood in silence, then the artist said, 
with respectful tone and manner : 

‘ Surely I have seen you somewhere before ? . . . I have not been 
here for many years ; yet I seem to remember you.’ 

‘ Many years !’ Barbara replied, looking into the worn, much 
enduring face before her, and all unconsciously using a less rude 
degree of the dialect of her daily life. ‘Many years I It’s just 
five this herring-time ... I remember so well. It was the year 
after the big storm. Mebbe you heard o’ that ?’ 

‘ Yes, indeed ; and now I remember. You are Barbara Burdas,’ 
he said, with an increase of gravity, and speaking as much to himself 
as to Bab. ‘ And many things come back with my remembrance 
of that same summer. . . . Yes, many things.’ 

Then he looked into the girl’s face again, the face that had been 
so beautiful, so touching, five years ago, and now was more beautiful, 
more touching than ever. He could not but continue to look, to 
question silently, to answer himself silently also. 

‘ There is trouble there,’ he said, discerning by the light of the 
bygone trouble that was dead, but not buried, in his own heart. . . . 

‘ There is sorrow, and yearning, and strength, and determination. 
There is no yielding, there is no joy, there is no hope. . . , Pool 
child ! for you are but a child in spite of all contrary seeming.’ 

All this the artist’s eyes said, and Barbara understood in a degree, 
and her face was slightly averted : she was not used to sympathy 
and understanding. 


6o 


IN EXCHANGE FOE A SOUL, 


‘ 1 remember your loss/ the artist said. ‘ Your great loss I And 
your grandfather— how is he ?’ 

‘ He’s hearty, thank ya.’ 

‘ And the little ones —how many P I forget the number/ 

‘ Four ; they are all well, all bonny, all good. Nobbut Jack gives 
a bit o’ bother now an’ then ; but he’s not a bad bairn.’ 

‘ Only troublesome ? You are right, that doesn’t mean badness, 
very seldom. But about yourself — what have you been doing all 
these years ? Working — that I know ; but your life has not been 
all work, not merely work, that I can see ! . . . I can see much, 
some things that make me sad. Will yon forgive me if I speak out 
— if I say just what I am thinking ? . . , I am fearing that you 
have suffered, that you have some sorrow now — some sorrow of 
which you do not speak. Am I mistaken ? Am I reading your 
face wrongly ?’ 

Bab blushed deeply and smiled with a very sad sweetness, while 
the tears that rose to her eyes were dashed away with most im- 
patient gestures. 

‘ It mun be a queer face, I’m thinkin’,’ she said, with a touch of 
inevitable satire. ‘ Or else you mun be one o’ the thought-readers 
’at one hears toll on i’ the newspapers.’ 

‘ But you don’t read the newspapers, Barbara ?’ 

The girl looked up in surprise. The tone of the interlocutor’s 
voice seemed to her to have reproach in it, which she could not 
understand, yet she must speak out. 

‘ Yes,’ she said. ‘ Every week o’ my life I read the Ulvstan 
Mercury — most of it I read aloud to my gran’father — he’s despert 
keen o’ the news. I used to be troubled wi’ the strange things ’at I 
didn’t understand ; an’ more especially wi’ the strange words ’at I 
couldn’t saay. But now I can guess sometimes ; an’ I’ve begun to 
see ’at it’s all i’ eddication, the difference atween folk. If you’d a 
thousand pounds i' gold, and had no eddication, you’d be nowhere. 
But the worst o’ the newspaper is that there’s never anuff about 
nothing to satisfy ya. There’s a little bit o’ this, an’ a little bit o’ 
that, an’ ya’re left just about as wise as ya were before.’ 

The artist was listening keenly, noting sadly. ‘ You have no 
books, then ?’ he asked after a time. 

‘ Oh, yes, ever so many !’ said Bab, rather proudly. ‘ We’ve the 
Bible, an’ two prayer-books, an’ the Methodist Hymn-book. An’ 
then, noan so long ago. Miss Theyn gave me the “ Pilgrim’s 
Progress,” an’ I’ve read it three times through already. But there’s 
other books I know, a sight o’ them, an’ I reckon they’ve all got 
something in ’em ’at one *ud be the better for knowing. One sees 
them i’ the shop-winda’s. But then, they’re not the sort o’ books 
for such as me — very few o’ them. They’re meant for scholars — 
for such as ’ 

Barbara did not finish her sentence, nor did she sigh or look 
despondent as before. Instead, she merely turned her face and 
looked out to the sea, out to where the white-sailed ships were 
gleaming and gliding in the far blue distance. 


6i 


BARBARA BETRAYS HERSELF. 


‘ You are thinking of some one Damian asked gently. 

‘ Yes ^ Bab replied, with her usual instinct toward ingenuousness. 
‘ Yes ; I was thinking of her— Miss Theyn. You’ll know her 

maybe ?’ . t x 1 j. xi. 

‘ No ; I do not. I was here a very short time, and I did not then 

desire to know anyone. . . Who is Miss Theyn ? The Rector’s 

daughter ?’ 

‘ No ; the Rector’s niece. Old Squire Theyn’s her father ; but 
she lives at the Rectory.’ 

' And she is a scholar ?’ 

Bab raised her eyes swiftly. 

’ I should think she is !’ was the emphatic reply. ‘ Eh ! you 
should hear her talk — it’s beautiful. The words is like— oh, I don’t 
know what it is I would say ! It’s just as if one was lissenin’ to 


music.’ 

‘ Is this lady young ?’ 

‘ Yes ... I think so ; but Ah doan’t know, for she’s sa tall an’ 
sa stately, at times she’s even haughty like ; but I can’t tell hoo it 
is, ya seem ta love her more for it. Ah’m noan one ’ats given to 
takkin’ nought fra nobody ; but there’s been times when I’ve felt 
’at I would sooner take a blow frev her than a good word frev 
anybody else. ... It is straange I’ 

Damian was lister ing, noting. The girl was rising to eloquence, 
if not exactly of words, t’len of tone, of expression. The colour 
came and went on her fa^e, the fine mouth quivered slightly, the 
blue eyes sparkled to eaci fresh thought. 

‘ She is beautiful, this lady, I am sure ?’ the artist said, not with 
curiosity in his tone, but musingly, as if he confirmed something 
to himself. 

‘ Beautiful !’ exclaioaed Bab, her own face iriadi ted to a beauty 
she herself could not have appreciated, even h d she seen it. 

‘ Beautiful ! Eh, me ! Ya should see her when she looks at ya, 
when she turns her head a little i’ talkin’, so as to look straight 
into yer eyes ! An’ then when she smiles — -oh, I could never tell 
ya ! Ya feel as if there’s nought i’ the world ya wouldn’t do for 
her an’ ya feel dooncast like, an’ ever sa far away, because the e’s 
nought ya can do. I’ve laid awake o’ nights many a time thinkin’ 
whether there wasn’t nought she’d hev, nought I could do. . . . 
There’s the lobsters ; they’re despert sought after by the better 
sort o’ folk. Ya know the old sayin’ aboot Ulvstan lobsteis and 
Flamboro’ crabs ? Well, but then, you see, so ’twere to be ’at she 
needed any such thing, she could buy a pot full, an’ never miss the 
money. So where’s the good ?’ 

Damian Aldenmede was listening quite gravely, comprehending 


quite clearly. 

‘ No,’ he said, without a shadow of a smile. ‘ No, I shouldn’t 
think of the lobsters. But needlework, now— something of that 
sort ?’ 

‘ Needlework 1’ poor Bab said sadly. ‘ I’ve thought of it ; but 


62 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


rm a despert poor hand. Ah can make a bit o’ frock for Ailsie ; 
but it never fits, not rightly. Ah’d no help i’ learnin’, ya see, my 
mother bein’ gone. An’ as for fancy things, such as ya see i’ the 
shops, beautiful silky things, wi’ pearls an’ velvet, why, a touch o’ 
my hand ’ud drag ’em all to pieces, as if ya swept a ling besom 
across ’em. No, there’s nought Ah can do, not a thing, but stare at 
her like a fool when Ah see her, an’ then go home an' cry fit to burst 
the heart in my body because Ah can never be nothing to her — 
nothing at all !’ 

It would be difficult to describe with any accuracy the impression 
that Damian was receiving from the fisher-girl’s betrayal of the 
deep affection won by a woman so far above her in all that makes 
difference in human sight. He would not deliberately have called 
himself a student of human nature, yet few things deserving 
notice passed him by unobserved. 

One of the many ideas pressing upon him now was this, that 
here was a woman, young, eager, capable of some culture, yet held 
by ignorance as some are held by physical blindness. He could see 
her, as it were, groping for light, patient under the need for it, but 
with deep sadness lying concealed under the patience. What if he 
could help a little ?’ 

Not being quite a young man, having drunk somewhat deeper 
than most men of the cup of experience, he could not all at once 
give way to the sudden impulse that beset him — an impulse that 
would have led him to surround this girl with such books as might 
be useful, and to help her to suitable teaching. He must think of 
it. Yet he would retain, or rather acquire, the acquaintance need- 
ful to the carrying out of his project, if he should decide to 
continue his intention. 

For awhile he had been silent, looking down to the stone-strewn 
beach at his feet, apparently wondering if this or that pebble w^ere 
the celebrated ‘plum-pudding stone’ of Ulvstan Bight. But it 
was another kind of wondering that really occupied his brain. 

It moved him to speech at last. 

‘ Do you work all the day T he asked, ‘or is there some definite 
time set to your working ? What, for instance, do you usually do 
in the mornings from ten to one ?’ 

Bab smiled thoughtfully. 

‘Ah do a deal i’ that time, most days,’ she replied. ‘But the 
worst’s over afore one o’clock. As a rule, we’re at the Hither-beds 
by four these light mornin’s — that is, when the tide fits.’ 

‘ And the flither-beds are two miles away ?’ 

‘ Nearer three.’ 

* And you come back about this time ?’ 

‘It’s accordin’ to the tide. We’ll be late this week, an’ most 
o’ next.’ 

‘ I see ! Then if I were to ask you to be kind enough to stand 
or sit for me, whilst I make a picture, a likeness of you, it could 
only be in the afternoon T 


BARBARA BETRA YS HERSELF. 63 

‘ Only i’ the afternoon these tides/ said Bab, again blushing 
deeply. 

‘ And you have no objection ? You would oblige me by coming, 
by remaining in the same position here on the rocks for an hour or 
more at a time ? ... I do not, of course, wish you to give me 
your time without adequate return.’ 

Did Bab understand this ‘ art of putting things ’ ? Damian was 
not sure. The girl looked into his face half wonderingly. Then she 
said, in her simple, straightforward, yet not undignified manner: 

‘ I’d like to come. ... I like to lissen to ya when ya speak. . . . 
Can I come to-morrow ? What time will ya want me ? Two 
o’clock, will I saay ?’ 


CHAPTER XYIL 

A KEVELATION. 

* Oh what a power hath white simplicity f 

Almost as a matter of course, Barbara had told her grandfather of 
her interview with the gentleman down on the rocks by the ness. 
Old Ephraim listened silently, smoking his pipe, looking up some- 
what curiously into Bab’s face. 

At last he spoke. 

‘ Thoo mun mak’ a bargain wiv him, Bab !’ he said, slowly and 
emphatically. ‘ Dean’t thoo goa wastin’ thy tahme for now’t. 
They can afford it, them artises. Why, oad Tommy Battensby 
teU’d me wiv his oan tongue ’at yon man ’at painted sa mony 
pictures o’ t’ watermill up aboon Garlaff had meade a thoosan’ pun 
oot o’ that bit o’ beck allean — a thoosan’ pun i’ less nor fower 
year ! Think on’t ! Think o’ that noo, an’ dean’t thoo be ower 
eager-like. Hand off a bit, an* he’ll come doon— niver fear !’ 

Poor Bab ! She hardly knew why this speech jarred upon her — 
why everything seemed to be jarring just now. She said but little 
in reply to the old man’s characteristic warnings and exhortations. 
He had never before seemed to her to be selfish or grasping. Now, 
though they were quite alone, the idea of ‘ making a bargain ’ with 
the kindly and understanding stranger caused the colour to rise to 
her face for very pain. Already she had been thinking in a vague 
way that if he should ask her to accept money she would not take 
it. Other girls on the Forecliff had taken payment for the same 
service, she knew ; and they had boasted of it afterward ; and 
Barbara had felt herself to shrink from self -comparison with these. 
Now she shrank more than ever, since coarse handling had made her 
feel as if the transaction itself would have a certain coarseness in 
it ; and a sting was already in the pleasure that was to have been so 
pure and so welcome. 

Nevertheless, she went down to the rocks the next day ; and 
Damian Aldenmede saw with something that was almost distress 
that she had brushed her luxuriantly-straying auburn hair until it 


64 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


was as nearly smooth as it could be made to lie, that she had dis- 
carded her red shawl and her blue guernsey for a badly-fitting lilac- 
print gown and a clean white apron. The change was as a complete 
transfiguration. 

‘ Who shall say that dress goes for nothing after this T he 
exclaimed inwardly. Outwardly he was as much at a loss to know 
what to say as if he had been dealing with a duchess. 

But Bab saw instantly that something was wrong. Was it little 
Ailsie’s presence ? Bab had brought her sister down with her, 
thinking‘ that she. might cover any awkward moment that might 
occur ; and also because she was never so happy as when the child 
was by her side. 

She was a winning little thing, as Damian saw at once, despite 
the Sunday frock and the hideously-shaped hat of white straw, 
with its grass-green feather. Bab had daringly gone to the best 
milliner’s shop in the town to buy the hat, knowing that she would 
have to pay for her temerity ; but she had not grudged her hard- 
earned money, since little Ailsie was so pleased and had kissed her 
so warmly. It had made chatter for a week on the Forecliff ; but 
nowhere had it created the impression it was creating now. The 
artist was in despair, for the little one’s face grew upon him with 
every glance he gave. It was so soft, so sweet, so pure, so touch- 
ing, that he resolved at once to paint the sisters together if he 
might. The contrast between Bab’s largely-moulded figure, her 
handsome features, her air of independence, and the gentle, wistful, 
delicate appearance of the seven years old child at her feet, was too 
striking to be foregone. He would make an effort, a desperate 
effort if need were. 

There had been a moment of awkwardness, of silence, of mutual 
disappointment, which Barbara did not at all understand. At last 
the artist spoke : 

‘ I ought to have told you,’ he began, speaking in a kindly, 
regretful way — ‘ I ought to have said that I wanted you to come 
just as you were yesterday, without your bonnet, and wearing your 
work-day dress, as I wear mine,’ he added, glancing at his suit of 
gray tweed. ‘ And the little one — don’t be offended with me, but 
she is lovely ; and if I might paint her too, I should be more 
grateful to you than I can say just now. . . , You are not angry ?’ 

The latter question came because of the change that the artist 
saw on Bab’s face — the tide of hot colour, the quivering of eye- 
lids over eyes, that seemed as if they might fill with tears on ever 
so little more provocation. 

‘ Angry ? No,’ she said, restraining herself by a great effort ; 

‘ but when I thought I’d done everything I could to please you, 
it’s ’ 

‘ It seems a little hard,’ said the artist, speaking so gently and 
sympathetically that Bab could not but perceive that he knew all 
about it. And as a glimmering of the true state of affairs began 
•to dawn upon her mind, the tendency to tears became a tendency 


A REVELATION. 65 

to smile ; and the artist smiled too ; and little Ailsie laughed a soft 
low laugh that drew all attention to herself. 

‘ Then what will we do ?’ said Bab, quite herself again, and 
having a generous twinkle of humour in her glance, that proved 
her quickness in passing from one extreme to the other. ‘ What 
will we do ? Come down again to-morrow afternoon, me wi’ my 
creel on my head, an’ Ailsie wiv a string o’ dabs in her hand ? How 
would that be like suitin’ ya ?’ 

‘ It would suit me to a T,’ replied Damian, entering into Bab’s 
new mood all the more gladly because of the moment of pained 
constraint. He could not help adding, ‘ How quick you are to 
see !’ 

‘ D’ya think so ? D’ya think that truly ?’ Bab asked, with 
sudden glad earnestness. 

‘ Certainly I do, or I should not have said it.’ 

Bab did not ask the next question that was trembling on her lips. 
Instead, she paused, and looked out, as her frequent way was, over 
the peaceful sea, that seemed so wide, so suggestive of things not 
to be reached or touched, yet always to be desired. 

‘Ya really meant that?’ she said, looking into the grave face 
before her with a wistful, eager, pathetic look that marked the 
relationship between herself and little Ailsie. ‘ Ya mean it — that 
I am not sa stupid ?’ 

‘ You stupid ? By no means I’ was the emphatic reply. ‘ What 
could make you think that ?’ 

‘ Everything,’ said Bab decidedly. ‘ I know nothing, not as they 
know. I can’t even speak as they speak. An’ if I were even to try 
down here, there’d be nought but laughin’ an’ jeerin’. Oh, it’s hard 
— harder than you think !’ 

Again the artist was silent, impressed by the fervour of the girl’s 
manner ; discerning that there was more below the surface than he 
could expect to arrive at all at once. Surely there must be some- 
thing beyond mere admiration for the Rector’s niece underneath all 
this fervidness, all this strong desire ! And then, quite suddenly, 
he recollected that he might have known the truth — perhaps more 
than the truth, if he had not, somewhat peremptorily, closed the 
lips of his too- loquacious landlady on the previous evening. Now 
he had to bear the result of his want of knowledge. 

‘ I think I can understand,’ he said presently, putting down his 
brushes and palette, and seating himself upon a big^ brown, tangle- 
covered stone. He had previously offered his camp-stool to Ailsie, 
who sat perched upon it with the prettiest ease of manner andbearing; 
her little brown legs crossed, her clumsily-clad feet swaying down 
below. Overhead the tall cliffs were towering darkly ; the gulls 
were screaming and chuckling in and out. 

‘I think I can understand,’ he went on. ‘I can remember the 
time, though it seems long enough ago, when nothing seemed to me 
so precious as knowledge. And — don’t answer me unless you like 
— is it that that is troubling you, that you have not what the world 

5 


66 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


calls education ? Is it that you are desiring so much — for its own 
sake ?’ 

He might well ask the question. For the most part, those who 
do so desire it are the last to dream of external help. They have 
helped themselves, unknowingly, unconsciously, lojg before they 
were aware of what they were doing ; and there is no crisis of 
their life wherein they awaken to demand of others some aid in 
taking the first step. But though Barbara Burdas was not of 
these, her desire was not the less real. 

She listened to what Damian Aldenmede was saying wonderingly ; 
her face was bent downward, her forehead drawn into lines by bo 
weight of the thought presented to her. 

‘ For its oan sake,’ she murmured presently. Then she lifted her 
troubled eyes to the artist’s face, and continued, * Hoo can one tell ? 
Would I ha* cared if it hadn’t been for himf Would I ha’ cared 
at all ?’ 

Damian could only look at the girl with inquiring looks. She 
comprehended the inquiry, and an expression of pain came over 
her face. 

‘ Ya don’t know ! How should ya ? Yet I thought ya might 
have heard, sin’ it’s all over the place. . . . It’s him ; her brother, 
as I told you of yesterday. . . . But, oh me ! what am I saying ? 
He’s nought to me — no more than the wind that blows. . . . What 
is it in ya that makes me talk o’ things that never was, nor never 
can be ? . . . What have I said ? There’s nought in it — no, nought 
at all I’ 

‘ You are speaking of the brother of the lady you mentioned 
yesterday — Miss Theyn. Do you know him ? Do you know him 
intimately ?’ 

‘ I know anuff about him— more nor aiiuff,’ Bab replied. Then, 
instantly remembering herself, regretting her words, she said, 
speaking more sadly, ‘ All I’ve got to do wiv him now is to forget 
him — to forget I ever set my eyes on him, or ever opened my lips 
to speak to him, or ever let my ears listen to a word he'd got to say.’ 

Damian Aldenmede was not blind, nor altogether shortsighted. 
It was but natural that he should construe for himself the words 
he had heard ; and his own past experience led him to an almost 
dangerous verge of sympathy. 

‘ I think I know all you would wish me to know,’ he replied ; ‘ and 
I see that you are distrusting yourself — your own wish for something 
more than the mere production of a daily tale of bricks. Yet why 
should you— especially since you are so sure that you have no other 
wish, .no other hope ? And yet I think I understand you, the 
doubt you are in ; and, if I may advise you, I should say, put all 
doubt aside, and trust your higher instinct. I speak to you out of 
my own past experience when I urge you to set your mind on the 
attainment of something outside yourself.’ 

‘ Some knowledge, ya mean — some laming ? I’m thinkin’ on it 
always, night an’ day.’ 


A REVELATION. 


67 


‘ Then no greater earthly gift could have been given to you than 
a desire like that. I know what I am sayiog. I have tried to 
influence others to the same end ; but I have failed for the most 
part because I could not put into other minds, other hearts, the 
spring that moves my own — the mainspring of desire. . . . This great 
blessing you possess ; however you may have come by it, I perceive 
that you have it ; and to any man who can see as I see, who is look- 
ing out over the dreary waste of human life as I am looking to 
discern one human soul like yours, truly hungering and thirsting 
for something more than mere bread and shelter, is, believe me, to 
see a sight to encourage one — to make one glad. Nothing could 
give me greater pleasure than to be allowed to help you. It would 
take the dreariness from my evenings while I am here as few other 
things could do. Please say that you consent.^ 

Bab was watching him, gravely, wonderingly. There was a 
quiver at the corner of her mouth — a light in her blue earnest 
eyes. 

‘ Do I take ya rightly ?’ she said,* speaking as if with difficulty. 

‘ You would be willin’ to larn me something yoursel’ ?’ 

‘ Yes — more than merely willing.’ 

‘ An’ ya think I could larn ?’ 

‘ I am quite sure of it ; quite sure that you could learn every- 
thing that it is necessary for you to know.’ 

Bab remained silent, and Damian turned away, searching among 
the pebbles at his feet for the belemnites so frequently found on 
the beach at Ulvstan. He would give her tiihe to think of his 
proposal. 

But by-and-by he was startled by the sound of a sob ; one deep, 
half -restrained burst of emotion. He turned to where the girl was 
standing, little Ailsie by her side. The child was clinging to her, 
lifting a pale beseeching face. 

‘ Doan’t cry. Barbie ; don’t cry I What’s he done to ya ? What’s 
he said ?’ 

‘ It’s noan him ’at’s made me cry, honey,’ Bab answered, taking 
the little one in her arms, kissing her to hide her own emotion. 

‘ It’s noan him ! . . . He’s kind an’ good ; an’ we mun be kind to 
him if we can. But we can’t ; that’s the worst of bein’ poor. 
There’s nought you can do for nobody to show ’em how ya care.’ 

‘ There are various ways of showing,’ said the artist. ‘ And 
since you feel that you would be glad to do some good turn for me, 
please believe I am equally glad to do something for you. But we 
mustn’t stop at words ; and since I may not stay here very long, we 
must waste no time. How much time can you give me ? A very 
clever man once said that an hour a day, regularly given, would 
enable a student to climb almost any particular mountain of know- 
ledge he might wish to climb. Can you give me that — a whole hour 
daily ?’ 

‘ Ay, an’ more,’ replied Bab eagerly, wiping some tears away with 
the corner of her apron. ‘ There’s f our-an’-twenty hours in a daay ; 

5—2 


68 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


an’ I’m never i‘ bed more nor five on ’em. . . . But you’ve yer oan 
work to think on.’ 

‘ So I have ; but I seldom work more than four hours a day. My 
eyes grow less sensitive to colour after that ; and for conscience’ 
sake I desist. So don’t think of me. I have idle time enough — 
time that I shall be glad to spend in a manner that will bring me 
more gratification than all the art- work I shall accomplish in my 
lifetime.’ 

‘ Doesn’t yer work give ya no pleasure ?’ 

‘It doesn’t give me the pleasure I long for, the pleasure of being 
in any sense satisfied with what I do.’ 

‘ Still ya go on trying ?’ 

‘ Always trying, always hoping.’ 

‘ Then mebbe ya’ll come to it at last I ... I hope ya will, for 
you’ve been sa good to me.’ 

‘ You will let me be good ? You will let me come in the even- 
ings for an hour, shall I say seven to eight ? Would that be a 
suitable time ?’ 

‘It would be suitable anuff,’ said Bab, again changing colour, and 
speaking with some indecision. ‘ But couldn’t I spare you the 
trouble o’ cornin’ ? Couldn’t I come to Mrs. Featherstone’s ?’ 

‘ No,’ the artist replied. ‘ It would be better that I should come 
to your grandfather’s house. Is he at home in the evenings ?’ 

‘ Yes : alius. But he’d not be i’ the waay. He smokes his pipe, 
an’ dozes till bedtime without much talkin’.’ 

‘ Then I’ll come to-night, if I may. And you will forgive me for 
the mistake of this morning ?’ 

Bab smiled, — not the scornful smile she was so apt to use. 

‘ Forgive !’ she said. ‘ Ay, an’ forget an’ all.’ 

‘You won’t forget to come down to the rocks again to-morrow ?’ 

‘ No, — an’ I’ll not forget ’at you like us best i’ the every-daay 
wear. . . . Come, Ailsie ! Saay good-bye to the gentleman. We 
mun be goin’ home. Gran’father ’ll be wantin’ his tea badly 1’ 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

AT OEMSTON MAGNA. 

* To man propose this test — 

Thy body at its best, 

How far can that project thy soul on its lone way ?’ 

Kobeut Browning. 

It is strange how, in some lives — lives that seem fair, pure, peace- 
ful — any true, and high, and perfectly spiritual aspiration is yet a 
rare thing. The outside world looks on, seeing a man or woman 
whose life is without spot or stain ; whose name is on every list of 
names charitable ; whose place in church is never empty ; whose 
whole demeanour tells of a careful walk, with uprightness in every 
sense of the term. And that outside world is not mistaken ; it 


A T OB MS TON MA GNA. 69 

seldom is. Hypocrisy may remain practically undetected ; it never 
passes altogether without suspicion. 

And yet even that outwardly stainless, and inwardly true human 
being may be aware of a lowness, a deadness, that is almost as bad 
to bear as any consciousness of actual sin could be. 

Thorhilda Theyn was a woman of too high nature to permit of 
much deadness of spirit without self-protest. Hitherto her inner 
life had consisted largely of a kind of mild warfare, wdth more of 
compromise in it than she cared to perceive except on the occasions 
when she was compelled to be honest with her own soul. And 
these were perturbed times ; for she did not spare herself. Any 
other person, knowing her whole life, would have set down much 
to the exaggeration natural to an imaginative woman. 

The heart knows its own bitterness, and the soul knows its own 
failure ; and few could have felt more acutely than did Miss Theyn 
that her life was below her own highest standard. 

And she had no real excuse — this she knew. 

‘I have no cares,’ she had admitted to hei\«elf ; ‘my mind is not 
distracted by the need of fighting for bread. I have no doubts ; 
God has mercifully given me a soul, a mind, that can accept His 
every saying without question. I have no hindrances to bar me 
from the spiritual life, none but such as are within myself, growing^ 
increasing within myself I 

‘ I am too much at ease ! Trouble might stir me ; and yet, how 
I shrink from it, even from the idea of it ! 

‘ If I had to live Gertrude’s life, for instance, I think I should 
not care for another year of existence. These surroundings are so 
much to me ; the ease, the comfort, the never having to move from 
my sofa or easy-chair, not so much as to write a note unless it is 
one I wish to write ; the warmth and softness of everything, the 
very fire in my bedroom night and morning for nine months of the 
year ; the fact of having a carriage at command morn, noon, and 
night ; the knowledge that no wish of mine for food or dress, or 
for any of the little luxuries of daily life, is ever disregarded or 
forgotten, all these things are as the air I breathe. I have never 
once thought of them definitely till now ; but now I know that I 
could not exist without them. I fear that the smallest deprivation 
would be intolerable.’ 

All these things Miss Theyn had admitted to herself, and not 
without self- blame, on the evening before the garden-party at 
Ormston Magna. The party of the year it was to be, so everybody 
was saying ; and Thorhilda was not without suspicion that it was 
being given with a definite end in view, an end that concerned 
herself. She would be made to perceive more clearly than ever 
before Percival Meredith’s ability to gather about him, in his own 
home, whatever of rank or fashion the neighbourhood contained. 

There were several county families within a certain radius of 
miles. Lord Hermeston, of Hermeston Peel, had accepted the 
invitation. Lady Thelton and her four honourable daughters were 


70 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, 


coming. Sir Robert and Lady Sinnington were expected ; with 
squires and dames of all degrees ; and people not distinguished in 
any particular way had been invited in numbers sufficient to almost 
fill the terraces and gardens of Ormston. 

Both Canon Godfrey and his wife were of opinion that the day 
was meant to have a special influence upon their niece’s decision ; 
and Mrs. Godfrey did not for a moment doubt what that decision 
would be. From the first she had thrown all the weight of her own 
conviction into the scale on the side of the owner of Ormston ; and 
believed that she had not done so in vain, but her husband had 
very greatly questioned as to whether the matter was so entirely a 
foregone conclusion as Mrs. Godfrey ay^peared to think. 

It would soon be seen, however. The eventful day — a day in 
early August — broke brightly upon the earth. Not a cloud 
threatened. The far, still sea was shining, studded with the silvery 
rippling lights that seem to glitter like stars upon a sapphire 
floor. 

All the morning Thorhilda walked about the Rectory gardens, an 
unread book in her hand ; cool, sweet-scented airs upon her fore- 
head ; perturbing thoughts in her heart — so perturbing they were 
that she was glad to see Gertrude Douglas come smiling down 
between the standard roses, the great blue larkspurs, and the golden 
lilies. 

Gertrude was beautifully dressed in primrose cashmere and purple 
plush. Even Miss Theyn did nofc know that the costume was a 
present from her Aunt Milicent to Miss Douglas. Mrs. Godfrey 
was not a woman who liked to do such things as that with 
ostentation. 

‘ Let it be between ourselves, dear,’ she had said to Gertrude. 
‘ For after all it is a selfish sort of gift, I do so like to see my 
friends well dressed. And Thorhilda really cares so very little 
that I often feel quite troubled.’ 

That had all been said a fortnight ago ; but Miss Douglas had 
not forgotten it. She came gliding down to the west arbour, 
conscious of beauty, of a certain indefinable fascination which was 
neither of the heart nor of the intellect, and yet had force to 
impress others. There were moments when Thorhilda half resented 
an impressiveness which she could not comprehend. 

‘ Not dressed yet ! Why, my dear P Miss Douglas exclaimed in 
her high-pitched, yet most musical voice, coming forward to bestow 
an eager kiss as she spoke. ‘ What time do we start ? Four ! 
Isn’t that late considering the length of the drive ? And, why, 
what’s the matter ? You look quite doleful ! And on this day of 
all days of the year ! Well, you do surprise me ! If such a party 
had been given in my honour, I should have been dressed hours 
beforehand, and rehearsing my part in a darkened room, so as to 
concentrate all my faculties.’ 

Thorhilda returned her friend’s kiss with a certain emphatic 
quietness ; and not wishing to discuss the matter alluded to, she 


AT OEMS TON MAGNA. 


n 

did not disclaim Gertrude’s idea as to the intention of the gathering 
at Ormston Magna. 

‘ A rehearsal in a darkened room ?’ she said, by way of reply. 
‘ That does remind me of poor Aunt Averil, who, for years past, 
has tried to induce me to give an hour a day to the study of 
manners. She has a little morocco-bound book, with tinted paper 
and gilt title, in which she has written an entire code of good 
manners, with extracts from every book she has ever read bearing 
at all upon the subject. A fresh acquisition is read out to me each 
time I go to the Grange. The time before last it was a quotation 
from “ Lothair,” to the effect that repose was of the essence of 
beauty ; I forget the exact words. Last time the quotation was 
from Lord Ljtton, and urged the larger duty of trying to enter 
into other people’s views, other people’s ways of thinking. It was 
something like this : 

* “ Few there were for whom Harley L’Estrange had not appropriate 
attraction. Distinguished reputation as soldier and scholar for the grave ; 
whim and pleasantry for the gay ; novelty for the sated ; and for more vulgar 
natures was he not Lord L’Estrange ?” ’ 

‘ And your Aunt Averil keeps a book of that kind ?’ said Miss 
Douglas, with such regard in her mention as she had never shown 
toward Miss Chalgrove before. ‘ I do hope she will leave it to 
you.’ 

Thorhilda could not help the smile that came — a smile of many 
meanings. In reply, she said : 

‘ I told Uncle Hugh of our conversation when I came home. He, 
too, was amused at first. Then he o ned a New Testament that 
was lying near, and for a little while he seemed to be reading, or 
thinking. Then it was as if he spoke to himself rather than to 
me ; his utterance was disjointed, like one speaking in his sleep : 

* “ There is nothing new under the sun,” he said, rising from his 
chair and walking to and fro slowly in the dim light that was at 
the farther end of the drawing-room ; his hands, still holding the 
Testament, were crossed behind him, his head was bowed thought- 
fully, his voice came sweet and pure and earnest. 

‘ “ No, there is nothing new,” he continued. “ The finest refine- 
ment of manners cannot go beyond St. Paul — except in one direc- 
tion only — the manners of his Master. But to remain below these, 
on the merest human level, has it not all been said, all that your 
essayists and novelists and poetical critics of life can bring forward 
as to the essence of the matter ? You are not to think of, you are 
to sacrifice self? — that was said long ago I You are to be all things 
to all men ! St. Paul said, ‘ I made myself a servant unto all.* ” 

‘ And then he went much further, into greater and finer detail. 

Only for a moment,” he said-r-“ just for one moment, change St. 
Paul’s word ‘ charity , and substitute ‘ fine manners I’ 

‘ “ Fine manners are kind ; they envy not, they vaunt not ; those 
who have them are not puffed up. 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


72 

‘ ‘‘ Fine manners behave in no unseemly way ; the man who is 
hapny enough to possess them does not seek his own. He is not 
easily provoked. He is not capable of thinking evil. 

‘ He rejoices not in iniquity — no, nor even in hearing of it. His 
greatest joy is to hear of the good and the true. 

‘ ‘‘ Moreover, the man of fine manners can bear all his sorrows, 
his trials, in the dignity of silence. If even he should have to bear 
upon his heart and brain the weight of the wrong-doing of others, 
he can yet bear without complaint. 

‘“And the secret of all this is simple in the extreme. ‘He 
believes all things.' Believing, he can endure in calmness, in joy. 

“‘And yet another event, his fine manners ‘never fail.' Other 
things may fail, and cease, and vanish away ; but the man or 
woman who shall use as his or her pocket-book of etiquette the 
thirteenth chapter of the First Corinthians shall not be found 
wanting. 

‘ “ The man or woman nurtured, trained on the teaching of the 
New Testament alone, shall be at a loss in no good society. The 
rules are there ; the disposition to obey the rules is innate. The 
lowest saint, the humblest follower of Jesus, shall shine in the 
highest human society that this or any other land can produce.” ’ 

So the Canon had spoken one evening, not long before the 
eventful day to be recorded. And Thorhilda reproduced his words 
as closely as her memory permitted. Becoming aware that her 
complacent friend was growing restless, she desisted. 

After all the preparations that had been made, it was yet late 
when the Rectory party started — four of them in Mrs. Godfrey's 
pretty light brougham, the remainder in the waggonette. On 
arriving they saw at once that the lawns and seaward terraces were 
filled with guests. A band was playing in the shadow of the north 
end of the house ; tennis-courts had been marked ; a long white 
tent sheltered the refreshments that were being dispensed by 
numerous servants, male and female. In the paddock, on the 
southward side of the house, targets Had been set up for archery ; 
but since the Market Yarburgh club was of recent date, no one 
expected much entertainment from the eJSorts of its members — 
and, indeed, just now it was too hot for exertion of any kind. Mrs. 
Meredith came forward to greet the Rectory party under the shelter 
of a rose-pink parasol ; her son Percival was by her side, ready to 
take Thorhilda's hand as she stepped from me carriage, and yet not 
forgetful of Mrs. Godfrey or Miss Douglas. No one could find a 
flaw in his courtesy, now or ever ; but he at once made it evident 
to everyone that his especial attention that day was to be devoted 
to Miss Theyn. He had reason enough for being proud of his 
position. He remained by her side as she shook hands with this 
group of distinguished guests, and with that, and his approbation 
of her graceful, reserved courteousness increased at every step. He 
noted her perfect ease of manner, her unconscious dignity, her rare 
and exquisite loveliness, with all the pride of one anticipating the 


AT O RMS TON MAGNA. 


73 


further pride of possession. All through the afternoon he remai’ned 
near her, moving with her through th<i gay crowd, sitting a little 
apart with her under the shade of the wide beech-trees listening to 
the band, watching the tennis-players, pointing out to her his rarest 
and most perfect flowers, waiting upon her lightest word, and doing 
all with the quiet, eager intention that alone might have betrayed 
how it was with him. People looked at each other with the look 
of half -amused intelligence natural at such times ; some whispered, 
some even ventured on a question to Mrs. Meredith, whose pretty 
gray silk dress seemed to be shining everywhere. 

‘ Is it all fixed ? Mayn’t we know ?’ asked Lady Thelton, who 
was the most intimate of the friends present at Ormston. 

But Mrs. Meredith put up her little white hand deprecatingly. 

‘ Oh, hush !’ she said. ‘I am superstitious. I never talk of a 
thing until it is beyond the possibility of failure.’ 

‘ You superstitious !’ laughed Lady Thelton. ‘ Ob, my dear, what 
will you accuse yourself of next ? But I see ; I am to be discreet"! 
Well, give me time to think of a wedding- present worth sending.’ 

Was Thorhilda conscious of all the woiiderings, the surraisings 
that were going on about her? She hardly knew. She seemed to 
herself to be more perturbed than happy ; more bewildered than 
content. And yet as the hours went on, swiftly, dreamily, she 
knew that she was yielding, yielding half against her wish, to the 
overpowering influence of the emotion that was subduing another 
so completely that its force, like an electric touch, was communi- 
cated to herself. Outwardly as calm, as strong, as dignified as ever, 
inwardly she felt helpless ; and she could make no protest ■when she 
knew that she was being gradually and designedly separated from 
the crowd — drawn by a glance, or less, to a solitary nook between 
the hillsides, and beyond the gardens, a copse filled with a tangled 
undergrowth, through which a little beck went trickling and singing 
down to the sea. Before she knew it, they were alone — she and 
Percival Meredith ; alone and silent — so silent that the note of a 
bird seemed loud and intrusive, and the gurgling of the water some 
want of deference on nature’s part. For a long while there was no 
other sound. 


CHAPTEE XIX. 

UNDER THE LARCHES. 

* A vague unrest 

And a nameless longing filled her breast— 

A wish that she hardly dared to own. 

For something better than she had known.* 

J. G. Whittieb. 

Percival Meredith was a man who had sufficient assurance for 
all the ordinary purposes of life, but he was well enough aware that 
the present moment was in no sense an ordinary one. Yet he 


74 


IN EXCHANGE FOE A SOUL. 


wondered a little at the strength of the emotion that was besetting 
him ; it was new and strange. Though he had known love before, 
or something that he had counted for love, he had never till now 
felt this almost hesitancy that held him in its grasp. It was not 
till he had made the effort of recalling the facts that Mrs. Godfrey 
had given him all the encouragement that a woman in her position 
could give ; that the Canon had shown him a kindly welcome at 
all times, whilst Miss Theyn herself had never exhibited the faintest 
distaste, or seemed other than pleased by his presence — it was not 
till he had recollected these things with some vigour that he began 
to regain the standpoint natural to him. Even now it was not easy, 
and Thorhilda was not making anything easier for him. 

She stood leaning against the trunk of a young larch-tree, straight 
and whit and still, even a little sad now, if her expression were 
any true index of her feeling, and yet to Percival Meredith’s 
thinking she had never looked more beautiful. Her white cashmere 
dress fell into graceful folds, and mingled with soft, creamy lace 
and loopings and floatings of ribbon and borderings of plush. The 
only ornament she wore was a Niphetos rose, which he himself had 
gathered for her and given to her earlier in the afternoon. 

‘ It was good of you to wear my rose,’ he said at last, speaking in 
a low voice, and lifting his long dark eyelashes in a certain languid 
yet effective way peculiarly his own. Thorhilda blushed under his 
gaze, but faintly, and with as much consciousness of disturbance as 
of pleasure, yet the beautiful soft, sea-shell pink made her seem 
lovelier than ever in his sight, and, half unconsciously, he drew a 
little nearer to her side. 

‘ But all you do is good and kind,’ he continued. ‘ It is that gives 
me hope, and that only. Though I have watched you, tried to 
make myself something to you, some part of your life, these two 
years past, I must admit that I have yet no assurance. One 
moment, nay, perhaps for a whole evening, I have felt more or less 
happy, because I fancied you had given me more or less ground for 
hoping that you were beginning to care for me. Then, perhaps 
the very next evening, you have taken the ground from under my 
feet. Can you wonder that I have often known something like 
despair ? That for a long time past I have felt as if I must know 
what the end was to be — whether I was to hope for a whole long 
life of happiness, or for a life of something more nearly like misery 
than I dared to think. , . . Lately the suspense has been growing 
terribly. Can you not imagine it ? Can you not sympathize with 
it— at least so far as to say that I may hope that you will soon put 
an end to it — the end I yearn for? . . , You can never, never 
destroy my one earthly hope !’ 

While Bercival was speaking, naturally enough Thorhilda was 
thinking, thinking rapidly, feeling intensely, as people do when the 
heart and brain are raised to their highest and swiftest power by 
the rush of the fresh force of life through vein and nerve. And 
here she found the good of much previous right thought, high desire, 


UNDER THE LARCHES. 


75 

and frequent prayer. Even in this impetuous moment she said to 
herself, ‘ I cannot have lived under the same roof with my uncle 
Hugh for nothing, and surely now, if ever, I must strive to see the 
right. . . . Would that I had openly asked him about this before, 
talked it over with him ! , . . I must do it, I must do it yet before 
I give any definite answer. . . . Yes, I must request time for that V 

Not once did it occur to her— how should it, in her youth, her 
inexperience of love, life, all things?— that a perfect affection, 
perfect within itself, would have needed no outward constraint, no 
external drawing or pressure, no help of any kind. 

But meantime, while she was thinking, Percival Meredith was 
moved to pouring out a very rhapsody of loving, pleading words, 
less preconsidered than those he had used before. Thorhilda had 
not dreamed that he could be so eloquent, so impressive, so fervent ! 
It was her perception of this latter quality that drew her to be real 
also. 

‘ I did not know, indeed I did not, that you cared for me so 
much,’ Thorhilda replied with timid simplicity, trembling, blushing, 
feeling so faint under the weight of new and strong emotion, that 
she longed to lean upon the strength of the man who seemed so 
all-sufficient for her support, then and after. What was it re- 
strained her? She could not do it. Despite her weakness, her 
almost yearning and tender weakness, she shrank from self -betrayal. 
‘ I cannot answer,* she said at last. ‘ I cannot give you any answer 
now !’ 

She stopped. Percival took her hand, holding it gently, as one 
who would quiet the fear betrayed. It was some time before he 
began to plead again. 

‘ Not one word V he said at last, ‘ not one iingle word ? It is all I 
ask. . . . And, no, I will not ask even that, if it is to cost you so 
much. How could I ask anything from you but that you should 
not forbid me to wait ? I will wait as long as you wish, only do 
not say that I may not hope. At least, at the very least, say that 
I may hope that you will be good to me some day ! . , . I wish you 
knew how I long to be something to you, to be in a position to— to 
save you from anything that might happen in the future. . . , And 
—and we none of us know !* 

Thorhilda was only half aware of the sudden restraint that came 
over Percival Meredith. Of the reason for it, for the sudden 
drooping of the eyes, the unexpected failure of the words of the 
man she was, or seemed to be, on the verge of loving with her 
whole life’s love, she knew nothing. 

How should she know ? There had been whispers abroad of the 
Canon’s unrestrained and unconsidered generosity ; of family 
claims, the claims of younger brothers, with their wives and little 
ones ; poor, unenterprising, clamorous ; but of all this Thorhilda 
had known nothing, and therefore had thought nothing. Once or 
twice it had struck her as a little strange that her Aunt Milicent 
should seem to be so emphatically on the side of early marriages. 


76 


JN EXCHANGE FOE A SOUL. 


‘ I might have thought she wished me to leave her/ Thorhilda had 
said to herself more than once in moments of perplexity ; but no 
such ungracious and ungrateful ideas had remained with her per- 
manently. And no thought of this kind had any weight with her 
now. She was only conscious of a strong desire to avoid the 
utterance of anything that should seem to be binding upon her 
afterward. 

And yet, even in this troubled moment, she felt that she must 
some time yield. Half she feared that she would do this, and half 
she hoped that she might be compelled by some circumstance 
outside herself to do it. 

But even now she did not recognise the fact that no hesitation 
ought to have been possible to her — no, not for a moment. A true 
and healthy human love knows no more of hesitation as to whether 
it shall betray itself, than a healthy human life knows of hesitation 
as to whether it shall go on living. If a test were wanting, here 
is one ready-made for most uses. 

But Miss Theyn was fully conscious of her perplexity ; and, as 
was natural to her upright spirit, she confessed it. 

‘I cannot, I cannot understand it,’ Percival Meredith said in 
reply ; speaking with a hew and moving humility, that was yet not 
untempered with self-respect. ‘I cannot understand. You either 
care for me, or you do not ! . . . Yet forgive me ! As I said just 
now, I am most willing to wait, only, only tell me why I must 
wait ? Will you not teU me that T 

A moment Thorhilda was silent. Then all at once, as it were, 
her spirit broke from the bewilderment that had held her as in a 
trance all the afternoon. She lifted her face, raised her beautiful 
gray eyes, which were deeply charged with all earnestness, all 
sincerity. 

‘ I will answer you plainly,’ she said, speaking with far less of 
trepidation in her manner than she felt within herself. ‘ I will tell 
you the truth so far as I can. And the first thing I must say 
is that I have no doubt of your affection for me. . . .’ 

‘ Then thank you for that, a thousand times thank you !’ Percival 
broke in with fervidness, and raising Thorhilda’s hand to his lips 
gracefully as he spoke. ‘Again and again I thank you for your 
faith in me. . . . But having admitted so much, what can hinder 
you now ? Not your want of love for me. Once more I say that 
I will wait for that. I will try to win that ! With all my heart I 
will try ! . , . And what is there beside ? — nothing, surely nothing.’ 

What was there in all this ready protestation that seemed, if not 
unreal, yet still in some curious way unsatisfactory ? AYas it the 
way of men ? of lovers ? The inquiries that Thorhilda put to 
herself were utterly childlike in their ignorance, their confusion. 
She had had no lover before, nor any dream of love. How should 
she know ? 

Yet she replied gravely, and with an altogether womanly dignity. 

♦ There is much beside,’ she said, and then there was a pause while 


UNDER THE LARCHES. 


77 


she made an effort to continue. ‘ If I am sure of you, or of your 
affection rather, I am not sure of myself, not in any way. I am 
fearing myself— my own integrity ; and I think that you should 
know of this !’ 

‘ Your integrity — yours P exclaimed Percival, feeling at least as 
much surprised as he seemed. ‘ What can you mean ? I should as 
soon doubt the integrity of an angel from heaven.' 

‘I mean this,’ Thorhilda said, her breath coming and going 
heavily, her eyes set with a seeming hardness in the expression of 
them, as if the effort after a perfect straightforwardness were 
testing her strength to the utmost limit — ‘ I mean this, that I am 
not sure that I return your affection, or that I ever can return it 
as it should be returned. I fear much that I never can. And, let 
me speak the truth in all sincerity, I know that I am tempted 
by your position, by the prospeet you have to offer me — the 
prospect of ease, of wealth, of unlimited luxury for all my future 
life. I have been used to these things, though they are not mine 
by birthright ; and now it seems to me that I could not well live 
without them. . . . And, as I fancied you suggested just now, 
I may not be able to live at the Rectory always. . . , And there is 
nowhere else — nowhere.' 

The silence, the utter silence that followed, was not one to be 
forgotten. For some moments Percival Meredith could make no 
reply ; and yet he hardly knew what it was that hindered him so 
powerfully, so completely. 

In his own heart he had long ago admitted to himself that in all 
probability worldly considerations would have some influence with 
Miss Theyn, more with her friends ; and the idea had not hurt 
him grievously. 

Now he was conscious of pain, of disappointment, of disillusion- 
ment ; and though he could not analyze his feeling, he was aware 
that he stood as one watching the visible shattering of some idol he 
had set up to worship ; and being not greatly given to such 
worshipping, the loss seemed all the greater. 

Miss Theyn began to perceive in a slight degree. 

‘ I have grieved you,’ she said sorrowfully, gently. * Forgive me. 
I thought it better to be honest, quite honest.' 

‘Yes,’ Percival replied musingly. ‘Yes, perhaps it was. And 
yet, I wish you had spared me !’ 

Again there was silence. Somewhere beyond the distant purple 
of the tree-tops the sun was sinking to the moor ; twilight was 
stealing into the hollow ; the rippling of the streamlet seemed to 
sink to a sadder, a less living tone. 

‘ Let us forget this,' Percival said at last. ‘ You have not said 
that you could not care for me ; and I think you will learn to care 
at least for my kindness, my love — the rest will come. I do hope 
and believe that it will come. I trust the future.’ 

‘ The rest !’ It had never been so near coming as it was at that 
moment. Percival Meredith, a little saddened, a little unhopeful. 


78 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


and subdued to a new humility, was very different from the self- 
assured man who had put aside every thought of failure, and had 
not been able, for all his diplomacy, to quite hide the fact that he 
had done so. Now he had nothing to hide ; and it may have been 
that one more kindly and earnest appeal would have been answered 
to his wish. But that appeal was not made ; and it may be 
admitted that there was reason enough why it should not. He was 
hurt, and reasonably, and one sign of it was the touch of petulance 
about his small, restrained mouth ; another sign was the want of 
perseverance at the one significant moment. 

‘ I will go on hoping,’ he said, turning to go, and cleaving a way 
through the briars for Miss Theyn to pass. ‘ And you will be good 
to me ; say that you will T 

Thorhilda smiled. 

‘Haven’t I always been good T she said, holding out her hand 
timidly, half reluctantly. 

‘ Yes ; indeed you have !’ Percival replied. ‘ As I said before, 
that was the only excuse I had for my presumption.* 

CHAPTER XX. 

THE CANON AND HIS NIECE. 

* To thine own self be true ; 

And it shall follow, as the night the day, 

Thou canst not then be false to any man.* 

Miss Theyn was not quite happy that evening — how should she 
be ? She was confused herself ; circumstance was confusing ; and 
there seemed no light — no help anywhere. On the way home from 
Ormston Magna, Gertrude Douglas indulged in a little mild 
badinage, which was quickly repressed. The Canon was thought- 
ful, absorbed. When Mrs. Godfrey came to know, from the lips of 
Percival Meredith himself, that Thorhilda’s answer had been vague, 
and not altogether encouraging, an unusual but most visible flush 
of anger mounted to her forehead, and remained there. Thorhilda 
saw and understood ; and having hitherto seen so little of any 
unquiet side there might be to her aunt’s character, the sight added 
to her perplexity. 

It was some time before the two women spoke to each other of 
the great event of the day ; and then nothing passed that was 
helpful in any way. Mrs. Godfrey knew more than Thorhilda 
knew of the reasons why Percival Meredith’s offer should have 
been graciously accepted, and she was too much a woman of the 
world not to prize to the uttermost the advantages that Thorda 
seemed quite willing, and quite unthinkingly, to forego for very 
indifference. This was how the matter seemed to the Canon’s 
wife : the Canon himself saw much farther. 

‘ Surely you would not force her inclination in any way ?’ he had 
said, after listening to the torrent of words his wife had poured 


THE CANON AND HIS NIECE. 


79 


out in his ear while they were dressing for dinner, the door between 
their rooms being open for this especial purpose ; and Mrs. 
Godfrey’s reply was one that he could only meet with a pained 
silence. Yet he was by no means insensible to the worldly advan- 
tages offered to his neice — nay, for reasons known in all their 
seriousness only to himself, he would have been at least as glad as 
his wife had been if Thorhilda had chosen to accept without demur 
the offer of the owner of Ormston Magna. Yet that she should be 
even by one word persuaded^ was repugnant to every notion of 
honour that he had. 

Later in the evening, seizing a brief opportunity, he could not 
but speak to the girl, whose white, and lovely, and lonely face 
seemed to be appe^ing to all the tenderness, all the manliness he 
had in his soul. 

‘ Tell me about it, Thorda,’ he said, laying a gentle kindly hand 
upon his niece’s shoulder as she sat musing sadly by the drawing- 
room fire. Mrs. Godfrey had retired early, being wearied with the 
inquietude of her own spirit, and of the day’s event. ^ Tell me 
about it,’ he said. ‘ I know the outside facts. You could not say 
“Yes,” not conscientiously.’ 

‘No, I could not,’ Thorhilda said, letting a single sob escape 
in spite of all repression. A weaker woman as much perturbed, as 
much excited, would have answered with a burst of tears. ‘ No ; 
that is just it. But to tell the truth I can hardly say where the 
conscientiousness lies. I am afraid of being dishonest — dishonest 
toward him or with myself.’ 

‘ You have never at any time felt that your mind was made up at 
all on this matter ?’ 

‘ No ; not for more than five minutes together. . . . Shall I tell 
you the truth, Uncle Hugh — all the truth ? I should like to be 
mistress of Ormston Magna — I should like it much. In one sense 
it seems the very place in the world made for me to fill.’ 

‘ That is just how it has seemed to me,’ replied the Canon. 
‘You have every quality that would be required — every grace. . . . 
And I had hoped long ago that it might come to pass. But my 
hope has limitations. Now, tell me the rest !’ 

‘ There is no rest ! I like Mr. Meredith, as you know ; but not, 
I think, with the liking I ought to have fcefore I can accept the 
position he wishes me to fill. . . . He says that this is but natural ; 
but just what he expected ; and that all the rest will come. It is 
here that my trouble lies. As you know, I have hardly known — 
hardly ever seen anyone else. And at one time I am drawn to 
him ; at another time almost repelled, without any reasom for 
either. ... I cannot understand !’ 

The Canon was watching, listening ; his inmost heart was lifted 
up for the One light, the One strength, the One guidance that 
could come to him. 

‘ Have you no word for me. Uncle Hugh — no help ?’ And as 
Thorhilda spoke she laid her white, beseeching hand gently upon 


8o 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


his arm. * I am no heroine/ she said. ‘ I want to do right, but I 
have not even self-knowledge enough to enable me to know what u 
right. Can’t you help me ? . . . I have never needed help so 
much before.’ 

The unintended touch of pathos in her voice moved the Canon 
greatly. He turned to Thorhilda with all the warmth of one to 
whom the unrealized idea of fatherhood was inexpressibly dear. 

‘I will help you all I can/ he said soothingly. ‘ I have been 
blind myself — at least it seems so to me now. And let me say, 
whilst I have opportunity, that I have not done all for you that I 
should have done. I could not. I had other claims, hidden from 
the world’s sight, for the most part, but binding to the uttermost. 
Your claim was binding also ; I knew that all the while. I am 
realizing it rather bitterly now. And it may be too late ; I cannot 
tell ! And I fear — I fear much that I counted on your making such 
a marriage as would quiet all my care for you, at once and for ever. 
Therefore you see how it is that I cannot urge you to think more 
favourably of Percival Meredith than your own inclination moves 
you to do. Under other circumstances I might have pointed out to 
you much that is good in him, and also the possibility of your 
influence heightening the good qualities he already has. As matters 
stand I cannot do this — not without suspecting myself. And, 
indeed, at present I can advise nothing but waiting — prayerful 
waiting. . . . Try that, Thorda prayer. There is no other 

help for this human world. And when light comes, he true to it ! 
That is all that I can say. Be true to the light given, wherever it 
may lead T 


CHAPTER XXL 

THAT WAS THE DAY WE LOVED, THE DAY WE MET. 

* The love which soonest responds to love — even what we call love at 
first-sight ” — is the surest love ; and for this reason — that it does not depend 
upon any one merit or quality, but embraces in its view the whole being. 
That is the love which is likely to last— incomprehensible, indefinable, un- 
arguable-about.’ — Sir Arthur Helps: Brevia. 

There was no one to counsel, to strengthen Barbara Burdas. If 
she stood up straight and strong, she stood somewhat apart from 
those who surrounded her more immediately. And it said as much 
for their human insight as for her tact that no one seemed to resent 
her position. If any did a kindly thing for her, the doer knew 
certainly that in his or her place Bab would have done as much 
or more. 

It is so that many of us accept kindnesses which unsupported 
pride might rise up to reject. We take them as they are meant, 
knowing that our own meaning would have led us to the same out- 
ward expression. ‘ You shall do this for me if you will, because in 
your position I should have wished to do the same for you.’ So we 


THE DAY WE LOVED, THE DAY WE MET. 8i 

reply to ourselves when a false dignity with all its suspiciousness 
would spoil the moment. 

All her life Bab’s place among her fellows had been an easy one. 
She had been admired without jealousy, commended without bitter- 
ness, respected without undertone of detraction. Even when her 
pride, her independence offended, her large kindliness of heart 
made quick atonement. 

So it was that no one resented the fact that she had been chosen 
by the artist to be the principal figure of his great picture, ‘ The 
Resting-place of the Flither- pickers.* Bab was to be in the fore- 
ground, just rising up from a brief rest, her basket of limpets on 
her head, Ailsie clinging by her side, and bearing her little basket- 
ful of bait. Half a dozen others were to be seated upon the rocks 
and stones of the mid-distance. 

Miss Theyn had heard of the picture, though, as a rule, she 
heard little of anything concerning the fisher-folk of the Bight. 
She might have known quite as much of their innermost life had 
she lived at York or at Lancaster. It is the stranger who is curious 
and interested where the resident is indifferent and supine. 

It was on the morrow after that unsatisfactory hour at Ormston 
Magna that Miss Theyn went down to Ulvstan to do some shopping 
for Mrs. G-odfrey, and to make one or two calls in her aunt’s name 
on some of the more prominent parishioners. At Mrs. Squire’s, 
the milliner’s shop, she had been so unfortunate as to meet her 
Aunt Katherine, and though this was only for one moment, Mrs. 
Kerne had seized the opportunity of making the moment as bitter 
as might be. Thorhilda bore the small unmerited sneers with 
outward calmness, but with more of inward irritation than she was 
accustomed to feel — an irritation that added to the things she was 
already bearing. When the morning’s work she was done she 
dismissed the carriage. ‘ Wait for me at the Cross Roads,’ she said 
to Woodward. ‘ I shall not be long.’ Then turning down the 
steep street that led to the beach and to the Forecliff, she half 
admitted to herself that she was in search of some distraction that 
had no name. 

‘ Where am I going, and why ?’ she asked vaguely, not demanding 
any answer from herself. It seemed as if the blueness of the 
sapphire sea alone had power to urge her onward, as if the soothing 
sound of the wavelets falling and breaking upon the beach alone 
could impel her to watch, to listen, to pause upon the brink of that 
river of life upon which she stood. She seemed to be filled with a 
strange hopefulness as she went onward over the beach, threading 
her way daintily among the tangle-covered stones on either hand. 
As she went onward, the sea-breezes blowing upon her face, the 
shrill cry of the gulls in her ear, she seemed to lose the tremulous 
sense of the painfulness of human life that had held her so strongly 
before. A new warmth grew about her heart, a new peacefulness, 
which made all the future seem plain and easy. Mere physical 
movement seemed a delightful and pleasant thing. 


6 


82 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUE 


Was it the sunshine that inspired her and allured her ? She 
went slowly by the edge of the wavelets that rounded the sparkling 
sea, which was retreating for awhile from the Bight of Ulvstan, 
moving gracefully, as to some rhythm, unheard and unknown. By- 
and-by it would advance again to the singing of the morning 
stars, joining its music to theirs, helping to complete the cosmic 
harmony. 

Thorhilda’s mood was quiet and sweet, yet there was yearning in 
it ; and the smile that was on her face as she rounded the point of 
Yarva Ness might certainly have been counted a smile of expec- 
tancy. She was looking out dreamily, half unconsciously, as people 
sometimes do who walk alone, and then, quite suddenly, she became 
aware that she was not alone. There was a large white umbrella, 
an easel, a wide canvas ; an artist with a big gray felt sombrero 
was bending over a palette, over a sheaf of brushes, making rapid 
touches, as he glanced to where Barbara Burdas stood, with little 
Ailsie beside her, among the weed-hung boulders of the Bight. 
Beyond were the tall cliffs, half hidden by the yellow sunshiny 
mist, that made the scene like the coast-line of some dreamland or 
wonderland. Miss Theyn saw none of these details definitely as 
she went onward with a smile toward Barbara, who stood there, 
tall, beautiful, almost as dignified as Miss Theyn herself. For a 
moment she forgot all about the artist, and lifted her creel from 
her head, without dreaming that the slight action was one to move 
him almost to despair. Yet he stood by with grave face and 
courteous attitude, wondering what his next duty might be. He 
was not so free from perturbation as he seemed. He had forgotten 
Bab’s description, his own anticipation, yet all at once he knew 
himself to be possessed by that fiash of feeling which arouses most 
of us when at last we stand in the presence of a long felt-after 
ideal. Here at last is the beauty we have tried to grasp in visions, 
here is the goodness, here the grace of soul. Being thus prepared 
we fall down and worship, and are at once the better for that 
worship. 

Rudel knew when the pilgrims brought from the East the 
accounts of the grace, the loveliness, the goodness of the Lady of 
Tripoli. He listened till he lost himself, lost himself utterly in 
the hope to find another. But the story of the troubadour having 
been told already it may not be repeated here. Browning’s brief 
poem contains the essence of the drama, its most vital human 
meaning. The man heard and loved, loved so intensely that when 
the moment came when sight was to be vouchsafed to him his 
strength was not sufficient for the ordeal ; it had been consumed 
by thought, lit by a supreme imagination. He fell at the feet of 
the woman whom he had loved unseen, and he died there. Ever 
since men have sneered at his name, or have grown sadder on 
hearing it. A few men, a few v >^en, have understood. 

Damian Aldenmede had not the poem in remembrance at the 
moment when he turned to meet the diffident, almost timid glance 


THE DA Y WE LOVED, THE DA Y WE MET 83 


of the lady of whom he had heard so much. Bab, in her own 
informal yet unembarrassed way, was introducing this new Lady of 
Tripoli or of Ulvstan. What’s in a name ? The Rudel of the hour 
stood holding his brushes and palette in one hand, raising his gray 
felt hat with the other, lifting a grave, unsmiling, austere face, 
with far-seeing eyes, that seemed so full of sadness, of some old 
hopelessness, that Miss Theyn’s one impression was that of a man 
acquainted with sorrow, and with little beside. Later she knew 
more, and judged far otherwise. 

She was the first to speak. 

‘ I fear I have interrupted you,’ she said, in sweet, musical, yet 
most unaffected tones. ‘ I ought not to have stopped, but I could 
hardly help it.’ 

As she ended her speech she glanced first at the canvas, then at 
Bab, with undisguised admiration. Bab was listening to her, 
wondering how her words, her voice, her grace, her beauty would 
strike this most perceptive artist, who was now disclaiming all idea 
of being interrupted. 

‘ It is good to have a brief rest sometimes,’ he was saying. ‘ And 
I am proud that my picture tempted you to stay and look at it. I 
only wish that it had been in a more attractive stage.’ 

‘ To me it is very attractive,’ Miss Theyn replied eagerly. * I 
have not seen an unfinished picture half a dozen times in my life. 
... I find great charm about a canvas only half-covered .’ 

‘ Do you paint yourself ?’ 

‘ No, I regret to say. I learnt to draw, as people do learn for 
whom drawing is classed with crewel work. My governess taught 
me. I did a drawing every month, the usual chalk trees, the usual 
chalk figures, with the usual river impeded by large stones. The 
only variation was in the ruins, sometimes it was a ruined castle, 
sometimes a church, sometimes a mill. There was a trick of touch 
for each.’ 

‘ And you learnt the receipt by heart ?’ 

‘ I learnt it thoroughly. When I had done so I laid down my 
porte-crayon for ever.’ 

‘ Surely not ? ... It is not too late to make up for lost time.’ 

Bab, who was listening closely, and with intense interest, was 
not aware of the quiet smile that was creeping unnoticed over her 
own face. 

‘ Is he always wantin’ to learn somebody something ?’ she asked 
herself. And truth to say she had hit rather cleverly upon one of 
the singularities of his character. It was not that he liked teaching 
in itself, nay, it would hardly be too much to say that he hated it ; 
yet the pleasure of knowing that he had satisfied another’s craving 
for knowledge, or even for mere information, was one of the most 
satisfactory pleasures remaining to him in life. 

Not that he was dreaming of offering lessons in drawing to Miss 
Theyn ; nor had Thorhilda’s vision progressed so far as yet. Still 
she was silent for a moment ; and during that moment she was 

6—2 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


H 

thinking of the possibility of taking up an art that would require 
time, labour and earnest thought. Then her future, as it had been 
placed before her only yesterday, rose up all at once, making her 
feel as one awaking from a pleasant dream to the dull and chill 
reality of daily life. The smile seemed to die from her lips and 
from her eyes. Damian Aldenmede, watching her closely, eagerly, 
^ aw, and . . , grievously misunderstood. 

‘ She thinks I am presuming — this dainty lady. ... I will be 
mindful ! . . . She shall think so no more !’ 

Thorhilda replied at last— speaking in quite another tone. 

‘ I am afraid it is too late,’ she said, watching the artist as he 
began to rearrange his brushes, to replenish his palette from the 
tubes. She discerned the change in him, the increase of gravity, 
the power of self-effacement ; and above all she saw the loneliness, 
the true heart-loneliness that has outworn all waiting, all searching, 
all hoping. Seeing that he was wishful to begin his work again, 
she said a few more words to Bab, gave a smile and a kiss to Ailsie, 
and turned to gb. 

There was no embarrassment visible in her manner as she bowed 
to the artist, saying gracefully, but not without an undertone of 
sadness : 

‘ Good-morning, Mr. Aldenmede. Thank you much for letting 
me see your picture. I am sure it will be a very beautiful one.’ 

‘ Will he ask me to come and see it when it is done was the 
question in her own heart. 

‘ Shall I say that I shall be glad if she will come and see it many 
times before the finishing touch is given ?’ was the question asked 
on the other side. 

Neither interrogation was uttered aloud, though perhaps the 
inward thought did not stray so very wildly. Miss Theyn went 
back over the beach alone, perhaps sadder than before, and with a 
strange and utterly unaccountable sadness. Yet she felt as if all 
at once a new restfulness had overshadowed her. 

‘ How quiet he makes one feel !’ she said to herself, speaking as 
she might have spoken of one whom she had known for years. ‘ Is 
it the strength in him ? the goodness ? lam sure he is good ; and 
I am sure that he is strong. . . . There is nothing frivolous there ! 
nothing selfish, nothing idle, nothing that could even tolerate 
luxuriousness.’ . . . Then there was a pause — a graver moment. 
‘ And there is nothing that could savour for one second of secrecy, 
of duplicity. If he is reserved, it is with the reserve of one who 
would hide from the world’s eyes a sorrow that the world could 
never understand. ... If I had a trouble, I could tell it to him ; 
he would comprehend, he would alleviate it somehow. ... I wish, 
I wish he had not been — what he is !’ 

Even in thought Miss Theyn could not put any words to her 
vague ideas of this stranger’s poverty ; she shrank from her owm 
notion, and felt curiously perplexed. That one who had a more 
true distinction of mannei, a more perfect grace of address, a finer 


THE DA Y WE LOVED, THE DA Y WE MET. 85 

reticence in speech and demeanour than she had ever seen before — 
that such a one should be lodging at Mrs. Featherstone^s, a small, 
tidy cottage at the back of the Forecliff ; that he should seem to 
be dependent upon his brush ; that he should have come into the 
neighbourhood of the east of North Yorkshire without credentials 
of any kind, was assuredly bewildering. Yet Miss Theyn’s utmost 
vision did not pass beyond his own presentment of himself. ‘Yet 
I wish — I wish he had been different,’ she repeated half audibly. 
‘ I know no one whom I should be so glad to have as a friend. All 
my life I shall think of him as the one man between whom and 
myself there might have been a perfect friendship.’ 

Meanwhile the artist had resumed his painting with redoubled 
vigour — working rapidly, silently, eagerly ; and Bab saw by the 
compression about bis mouth that he was in no mood for conver- 
sation. It was not till he had flung down his brushes and palette 
and patted Ailsie on the cheek, with thanks for being so still, giving 
her a bright new florin for her very own, that Bab dared to speak. 

There was a touch of humour in her blue eyes when she raised 
them. 

‘ Noo— did Ah tell ya wrong ?’ she asked, speaking gently and 
smiling softly. ‘ Did Ah saay a word overmuch ? Have ya ever in 
yer whole life seen a lady half so beautiful ?’ 

Aldenmede did not reply for a moment. Then, laying his hand 
gently on little Ailsie’s shoulder, and turning to Bab with his 
kindliest voice and accent, he said, using much emphasis : 

‘ Don’t misunderstand me, Barbara— indeed, I feel sure that you 
will not ! . . . But how shall I say it ? how shall I express what I 
am thinking — that it will be better that . . . better if you do not 
speak to me of Miss Theyn any more.’ 

Bab’s only answer was a quick, curious, wondering look. As she 
went homeward, she smiled to herself, saying : 

‘ He’ll speak of her to me afore I’ll speak of her to him ! But 
he’ll do that, an’ afore long, or my naame’s noan Barbara Burdas.’ 


CHAPTER XXIL 

IN YARVA WYKE. 

* And we entreat Thee, that all men whom Thon 
Hast gifted with great minds may love Thee well, 

And praise Thee for their powers, and use them most 
Humbly and hoiily, and, lever-like. 

Act but in lifting up the mass of mind 
About them.’ 

P, J. Bailey : Festus. 

The summer was passing on— a bright beautiful summer it was, 
with now and then a summer storm by way of variation, tossing 
up the white waves into Ulvstau Bight, scattering the herring-fleet 
north and south ; now and then a sea-fret, chilling yet stifling, 


86 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


defrauding the sight as with a temporary blindness. Yet the actors 
in the drama of life, as life was displayed on the stage of TJlvstan 
Bight, went on playing their parts all the same, apparently heedless 
of storm or shine. Some were bearing patiently, suffering silently ; 
some now and then flew out into mad street brawls, subsiding 
afterward to hide their misery, cowering by fires of shipwreck 
wood, seeming to cease from emotion altogether, and only to cling 
in a dumb brute-like way to the mere fact of existence. 

Canon Godfrey, going in and out amongst them, was touched 
ifresh each day by the endurance he saw. Misery was accepted as 

natural thing, as natural as labour or pain ; and oft he marvelled 
to see how such as were suffering most seemed best to bear the 
contrast that was daily increasing before their eyes. 

It was in the early autumn that the richer people came to 
Ulvstan, the people who brought their own carriages, their own 
man-servants and maid-servants. The resources of the neighbour- 
hood were taxed to provide for their wants, or what were counted 
as wants ; the little shops grew quite enterprising in their efforts ; 
the scene on the beach grew daily more and more gay. Ladies on 
horseback came galloping up and down by the rippling tide ; in- 
valids in chairs and carriages were drawn to and fro more slowly ; 
little brown-holland children with pails and spades went paddling 
in and out of pools and sand-castles ; crimson parasols burned in 
the yellow sunshine ; pink dresses and blue, white dresses and red, 
went flitting about among the bathing-machines ; and the fisher- 
folk looked on, and wondered, and did little kindnesses whenever 
opportunity came in their way with a curious and not unbeautiful 
acceptance of the inevitable. 

‘ Good God ! that one can bear to see it all, and to think of it I’ 
the Canon said to himself one morning, as he walked with his wife 
in search of Thorhilda, who had gone toward the Forecliff with a 
basket of flowers for Barbara Burdas, and had not returned to the 
place where they had expected her. 

She had meant to leave them at the Sagged House ; but she had 
found the door locked ; and Nan Tyas, passing by at the moment, 
had stopped to say : 

‘ Is it Bab ya’re wantin’ ? She’s noan i’ the hoose ; she seldom 
is at this time o’ daay.’ 

There was a pertness in Nan’s manner, as she leaned over the 
gate and lifted her bold black eyes, that aroused within the Rector’s 
niece a ouch of something that was almost indignation. 

‘ Thank you !’ Miss Theyn replied. ‘ Perhaps you know where I 
may find her ?’ 

‘ Perhaps !’ Nan admitted, evidently resenting the momentary 
haughtiness her own manner had awakened. ‘ Perhaps Ah do ! 
Ah’m noan boun’ te saay, sa far as I understand the law o’ the 
land !’ 

Thorhilda’s first impulse was to pass onward, without so much as 
a civil word of departure ; but she had force enough to recover 


IN YARVA WYKE. 


87 


herself. Turning to Nan, who still stood with her elbow upon the 
gate-post and an unpleasant smile upon her lip, she said quietly, 
and with dignity : 

‘ Has it so happened that I have offended you in some way ? 
Have I been so unfortunate as to displease you, to cross your will 
or wish ill any direction ? Pardon my questions ; but you seem to 
speak as if you had some reason for wishing not to oblige me.’ 

Nan stared for a moment into the pale, gentle, yet resolute face 
before her. The kindly expression answering her own insolent one 
was puzzling. Nan could not resent it. 

‘ Ah doant know as yovUve ever vexed me,’ sho said, averting her 
face slightly, partly in embarrassment, partly in shame. ‘ But if 
Ah mun tell the truth, you’re near anuff akin te them ’at hes.’ 

Miss Theyn began to understand ; and in spite of effort after 
self-control the understanding brought a flush of pain to her cheek. 

‘ I am not quite sure that I know what you mean,’ she replied, 
speaking in changed tones, yet still with a kindly and winning 
courtesy. ‘You will know that I cannot speak to you of — of 
others. ... If you cannot tell me where Barbara is, I will say 
“ Good-morning.” ’ 

‘ Good-morning,’ Nan retorted, lifting herself from the gate-post 
and moving away. But she turned again quickly. Miss Theyn’s 
word and tone constraining her. ‘Ah meant noa offence,’ she said, 
‘ an’ mebbe Ah’d better gie ya a word o’ warnin’. They mean mis- 
chief — some o’ Dave’s mates. . . . But, there. Ah can saay no more.’ 

‘ Stay a moment !’ Miss Theyn entreated. ‘ Mischief, you say ? 
To whom ? Not to Barbara— surely not to her ?’ 

‘ To Bab ? Noa, niver ! They’ll noan harm her ! But there’s 
others — there’s one ya know, not so far away by kin. Give him a 
word. If he’s not a fool, he’ll take it.’ 

‘ You are meaning my brother ?’ 

‘ Ah niver naamed no naames,’ Nan replied, half tremulously, 
and again turning to depart. ‘ It’s well anuff known i’ the Bight 
’at Dave’s heart’s been set upon her for years past ; an’ there’s noau 
but what thinks she’d ha’ given in sooner or later if nobody else 
had come between. An* they know how it is ! They can see that 
his heart’s just breakin’ ; and hers is noan so much at rest. They 
can see it all ; an’ they’ve said . . . But, oh me ! What am Ah 
doin’ ? They’d murder me — toss me over the cliff-edge as soon as 
look at me if they knew Ah’d betrayed ’em ! Eh, me, I is a fool ! 
. . . But you’ll noan let on, Miss Theyn ?’ 

‘ Can you not trust me ?’ Thorhilda asked, her face alight with 
gratitude, with sympathy, with kindness. 

‘ Trust you f Ay, to the death 1 But let ma go noo. Ah darn’t 
gtay no longer.’ 

Miss Theyn was left standing there by Ihe steps of the Sagged 
H )iise, perplexed, wondering, irresolute. Then all at once her mind 
wa'< made up. She would find Barbara first, and then go on at once 
to Garlaff. Doubtless the fisher-girl would be on the Scaur some- 


88 


JN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


where— in all probability at the point beyond Yarva Ness where the 
artist was at work upon his picture. Miss Theyn could see the 
white umbrella gleaming even from the Forecliff ; and at once she 
began to make her way thither, though not without some reluctance 
— a reluctance she herself could hardly understand. 

She had not seen the artist since that day when Bab had, in her 
own simple and unembarrassed way, introduced him to her. More 
than once her uncle had seen him at church, and subsequently had 
called upon him at his lodging ; and unfortunately the call had been 
returned one afternoon when the whole of the Rectory party had 
gone to Danesborough. Naturally, a stranger of such distinguished 
presence and bearing had been discussed at the house on the hill at 
Yarburgh. 

‘ We must see him somehow ’ Mrs. Godfrey had said one even- 
ing, not thinking how and where they were to meet. 

It was Barbara who was the first to discern Miss Theyn’s 
approach. She was standing in the usual position some two or 
three yards away from the artist, her creel on her head, little Ailsie 
by her side. Mr. Aldenmede saw by the sudden change on her face 
that some one was coming — some one in whom his model was 
interested. 

‘ Who is it he said, smiling. ‘ Miss Theyn ?’ 

Bab looked at him, and only the word ‘ roguish ’ could perfectly 
describe the meaning of her glance. 

‘Ah thought that were a name ’at had been forbidden to be 
said,’ she remarked, her expression saving her speech from all 
touch of temper. 

The artist looked up with quick appreciation. There was no 
time for words. Miss Theyn’s step was upon the gravel behind 
him. He rose and bowed. Bab saw his colour change, and the 
carnation that was on Miss Theyn’s face deepened to an almost 
painful degree. The words of greeting were curiously confused. 

Thorhilda offered the basket of fiowers to Barbara — rich and 
rare roses, heliotrope, stephanotis, sweet verbena, half buried in 
daintiest ferns. Bab took them with an emotion that betrayed to 
each of the on-lookers that her soul’s sensitiveness to beauty was 
not to be measured by any of the outward circumstances of her 
life. She turned away, silent, tremulous, to hide the basket from 
the sun within the cave close at hand. 

Miss Theyn was looking at the picture ; Damian Aldenmede was 
explaining his further intention concerning it ; while little Ailsie 
was resting on his campstool, her small hand clasped in his. The 
artist knew himself to have already a singular affection for this 
tiny child of seven, and that she responded to it helped to fill the 
lonely days with a quite new and felicitous warmth. He was glad 
that she was there while Miss Theyn was speaking. 

‘ Have you not been working very hard ?’ she asked, looking at 
bis canvas, upon which the figures were growing — coming to a fuller 
life, a finer beauty, a truer human expressiveness. Her question 


IN YARVA WYKE. 89 

Bounded common-place ; her well-meant grain the veriest chaff ; 
yet no other word would come. 

The artist smiled in answer. Then he said ; 

‘ That is true in one sense, yet one never counts the work hard 
that is done con amove. The hardness would be in being deprived 
of the opportunity of working. I do not think that in the intel- 
lectual life of man there can be a greater trial than to know that 
you have something to say or do, and to learn by sad and sore 
experience that the opportunity of uttering your word or doing 
your deed is to be for ever denied you.’ Then the man’s voice 
chauged, faltered a little as he continued : ‘ If there be a true 
taking up of a bitter cross it is known to the man who must do 
some lower work while his whole soul is drawn to live and to toil 
on greater heights. And it is a trial that not one human being 
in a thousand can comprehend ; therefore the man who suffers it 
can have no sympathy, hope for none. In the beginning he yearns 
for it, throwing out feelers here and there, as if searching after 
response, comprehension ; but by-and-by, borne down by sheer dis- 
appointment, he ceases to expect these things, and schools himself 
to a life of silent uncomprehended negation, knowing that he does 
this to his own loss, perhaps to the world’s loss also. Everything 
has its price.’ 

Had the man forgotten himself? All at once he seemed to 
wake up. 

‘ I beg your pardon !’ he said emphatically. ‘ I fear I was not 
thinking !’ 

But he saw that Miss Theyn was thinking as she stood there 
silent, impressed, beside his picture, looking into it with quite new 
vision. Bab was coming back from the cool cave where she had 
left her flowers, something glittering among the petals that was not 
the morning dew. She was by Ailsie’s side again, the little one was 
lifting her disengaged hand to Bab, Miss Theyn was smiling at the 
evidence of affection that was between the two, when ail at once 
everybody became aware of a figure, leaping, sliding, gliding, 
making for himself a pathway down the pathless cliff but just 
beyond Yarva Ness. 

Involuntarily the artist was drawn to look at Miss Theyn. She 
was pallid, trembling, distressed. 

‘ It is Hartas, my brother, ’ she said ; then she turned aside. If 
some madness w'ere moving him to self-destruction she would not 
look on while the deed was being done. 

CHAPTER XXIIL 

CANON GODFREY AND HIS NEPHEW. 

‘ For worse than being fool’d 
Of others, is to fool one’s self.’ 

Tennyson ; Gareth and Lynette. 

It seemed like a miracle that Hartas Theyn should make that 
perilous descent, and yet touch the beach unhurt. Thorhilda, tum- 


90 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


ing to meet him, saw that he was white and rigid to the very lips. 
He looked 1 inner than he had looked before ; and his dark eyes, 
as he looked from one to another of the little group before him, 
seemed alight with new and strange fires. So impressive his un- 
expected presence was that no one spoke for a moment. At last 
Thorhilda broke the silence : 

‘ This is my brother, Mr. Aldenmede,* she said, making a great 
effort after self-command. Then, turning to Hartas, she exclaimed : 
‘ How could you do such a thing as that ? How could you ? . . . 
It seemed impossible that you should ever reach the foot of the 
cliff alive !’ 

‘ There’s more than one here that would have been glad anuff if 
I never had ret aed it alive !’ he replied with ill-controlled emotion. 
‘ But I didn’t come down here to talk about myself,’ he went on, 
glancing hurriedly, nervously, to where Bab stood, inwardly per- 
turbed with strange apprehensions, with uncomprehended yearnings, 
yet outwardly calm, almost dignified. ‘I didn’t come for that' 
Hartas was saying. ‘I had another erran’ — an erran’ I’m not 
ashamed of !’ 

Then he paused for want of power to continue, rather than for 
want of words, and Damian Aldenmede, seeing this, came forward 
with intentions of the kindest. 

‘ Have you known anyone to make that descent before ?’ he 
asked, speaking as of a mere question of Alpine climbing, or rather 
descending. ‘ Pardon me for saying it, but I think you risked too 
much. The alum-shale hereabout is like soap — quite as slippery, 
quite as much to be distrusted for climbing purposes.’ 

‘ There’s things as is more slippery, more to be distrusted than 
the alum-shale,’ returned the young man, still pallid, still tremulous. 

No woman with a woman’s heart could have failed of pity or of 
sympathy ; and two women, not of the hardest natures, were beside 
him there. 

And Damian Aldenmede was watching them, seeing on the one 
face — the face he had turned to note first — a white, perturbed, 
pathetic sadness ; on the other a burning and increasing sense of 
pain and anxiety, almost of fear ; and yet it was easy to see that it 
was the fear that is waiting to be cast out by love. He could not 
but understand, at least up to a certain point ; yet he knew that 
there was much behind that he could not see. 

Half unknown to himself he was looking at this matter wholly 
through the eyes of another. However admirable Barbara Burdas 
might be as a woman of ‘ the masses,’ strong to labour, yet with 
innate ideas of gentle living ; having for duty’s sake to give her 
life, her youth, her best energies to earning the bread of others as 
well as her own, yet cherishing a certain consciousness of the fact 
that man does not live by bread alone ; content to spend the best of 
each day in toil that might even be considered disgusting ; exposed 
to every element of an unkindly and hardening clime, yet indulging 
ceaseless yearnings after knowledge, after light, after good — yearn- 


CANON GODFREY AND HIS NEPHEW. 


91 


ings that had to be kept in the straitest silence — however great, 
almost noble, all this in its way might be, Barbara was yet no fitting 
sister for the refined and cultured ladjj standing beside her now, 
making a contrast as complete as humanity could show. 

All this and much more the artist saw ; and in that moment it 
seemed to him that the truest kindness to Bab herself would be to 
endeavour to deliver her from the thaldom of the love into which 
she had so unwittingly fallen. He could see no happiness for her 
in any future that should include a union with this evidently hot- 
hearted, and perhaps more or less shallow-headed young man. 

All unaware his mind was made up, and this with a swiftness, a 
want of deliberation almost unprecedented in his mental history. 
Later, he wondered over that hour by the sea at Ulvstan. 

Not many seconds had passed since Hartas spoke. The young 
man was standing there, breathing quickly, glancing irately from 
one to another. As his glance fell upon Aldenmede the latter 
spoke : 

‘ You were mentioning some errand, I think— some motive ?’ he 
began inquiringly, and in placid, respectful tones — the respect a 
man of good breeding instinctively displays to a stranger, however 
inferior that stranger may be to himself. All unknowingly poor 
- Hartas was moved to a less antagonistic attitude for the moment. 

‘ Yes ; I did speak of an erran’,’ he said, his brown face coming 
to its natural brownness, with something over. ‘ I didnT risk my 
neck for nothing !’ 

‘ Naturally,' Aldenmede replied with unaffected gravity. He 
had seen that Miss Theyn was looking toward him pleadingly ; 
that Bab’s face was averted somewhat distressfully. ‘Naturally 
you did not, and your motive must have been a tolerably strong 
one ; and though I, perhaps, may have nothing to do with it ' 

‘ I reckon you’ve more to do with it than you may be willin’ to 
admit !’ Hartas broke in angrily ; ‘ an’ if I were in your place I’d 
make no pretence o’ not knowing.’ 

With a sudden gesture of impatience Bab turned herself towards 
the little group ; a light flashed to her eyes — the light of remem- 
brance. She had not seen the Squire’s son except in the distance 
since that unhappy evening, when he had hurt her woman’s sense 
of dignity by his too fervid and too hasty behaviour. For the 
moment his boldness, his rudeness, his roughness had caused a some- 
thing that was almost revulsion in her heart. But naturally it was 
only, so to speak, for the moment, and it had been succeeded by a 
pathetic yearning for what she thought of in her own mind as a 
peace-making, or at any rate some understanding that should tend 
to a feeling of peace ; and yet all the while she had precluded the 
possibility of any such opportunity happening to him ; and this, 
though she knew that his yearning was at least as intense as her‘ 
own. So it is ever with this 

‘ Most illogical 

Irrational nature of our womanhood. 


92 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


That blushes one way, feels another way, 

And prays, perhaps, another.’* 

And now again he was paining her, awakening within her a 
mingled sense of anger and heartache. Had she been alone with 
him, she had not shrunk from putting her pain into words, but as 
it was she could only restrain herself. Arresting the word that 
was on her lips, she turned away ; but the artist had seen, and had 
in a measure understood. 

There was yet no anger in Damian Aldenmede’s heart ; nothing 
but that large and generous pity. 

‘ I am sorry if I have given you any cause of offence,^ he said, 
speaking calmly. ‘ May I add that I have done so quite uncon- 
sciously T 

‘ All the same, you know what I mean ?’ asked Hartas. 

‘ I fear I am beginning to suspect.’ 

^ I’ll put it into words for you,’ said Barbara, coming forward and 
speaking tremulously. ‘ I’ll help ya both if I can, since it seems to 
be me ’at’s at the bottom o’ the trouble. . . . Here’s you ’ (turning to 
the artist), ‘ a stranger to the place, good an’ kind-hearted, an’ able 
to see when a woman’s heart’s aching for the need of help, of under- 
standin’, able to see, an’ more nor that, willin’ to give the help he 
knows to be needed ; willin’ to give time, an’ trouble, an’ pains to 
try to make that woman’s life i’ the present, and i’ the future, seem 
brighter, an’ pleasanter ; better worth the livin’ ; willin’ to give 
her, not only a word of encouragement, but to put the words into 
deeds ; to come an’ sit by the hour at a time in a little smoky fisher- 
man's cottage, wi’ the smell o’ the oilskins, an’ the salt fish, and the 
herrin’s all about, an’ never by no word nor sign to show no dis- 
gust, not for a moment ; an’ all this for the sake o’ giving an hour’s 
lamin’ to one as had never had noan afore ; but had gone on cravin’ 
for help i’ such things as a dumb beast out i’ the cold might crave 
for the shelter it couldn’t even pictur’ to itself. . . . There ! that’s 
what you might say for yourself, if ya would. . . . An’ as for you’ 
(turning to Hartas Theyn, who stood near, with an air of uneasy 
sullenness), ‘ as for you, it’s more difficult to say. You’ve thought 
to stoop down, to — to. . . .’ 

What ailed Barbara ? What could ail a woman, young, strong, 
ignorant of nerves, of fainting, of hysteria ? She had ‘^topped 
suddenly ; her breathing was coming and going rapidly, painfully ; 
her whole frame seemed to be heaving with a sudden violence, and 
it was evident that no more words were possible to her. In trying 
to describe Hartas Theyn’s position, had she attempted a task 
beyond her power ; or was it merely that the emotion of the 
moment was too great to be borne ? 

No one had time to think. 

Before Thorhilda could even attempt to comfort or soothe the 
girl, she perceived that two figures were rounding YarvaNess ; and 

* ]Mrs. Browning : Aurora Leijh. 


CANON GODFRE Y AND HtS NEPHE lY. $3 

almost at the same moment Barbara herself saw them. The Canon 
was helping Mrs. Godfrey over the slippery stones. Thorhilda 
went eagerly to meet them, with tearful face and outstretched 
hands. Here, at any rate, was strength and guidance. 

‘ Come she exclaimed. * Come and make peace. Uncle Hugh I 
Hartas is here — he came dashing right down the face of the cliff 
where it is steepest — he had seen Mr. Aldenmede sketching, and 
had taken some wrong notions into his head. Barbara Burdas was 
just telling him how wrong they were. Do come and put things 
right !’ 

It was very unusual to see Thorhilda so much excited, and her 
excitement caused the Canon to wonder how much the strength of 
any ordinary woman might be exhibited in her power to keep at 
least an outward show of calmness. 

To Mrs. Godfrey, whose notions of propriety were, in a certain 
sense, rather rigid, it was somewhat annoying to have to be in- 
troduced to this stranger, of whom she had heard so much, under 
such circumstances as these. Nevertheless she smiled sweetly, and 
shook hands graciously, and did her best to hide her annoyance. 
Then she turned to Bab and Harfcas, as she might have turned to 
two rather troublesome children in the Sunday-school, the beautiful 
smile still on her lip, a general expression of wondering amiability 
on her face. 

‘ What is it all about, Hartas ?’ she asked ; and anyone who had 
known Mrs. Godfrey well might, for all her amiable look, have 
detected a certain undertone of vexation. ‘ What is it ? Ah I how 
I wish you would take my advice and leave Garlaff for awhile ! It 
is unwise for a young man to remain* always at home, unwise to 
give himself no chance of widening his mind, enlarging his ex- 
perience, expanding his thoughts by contact with the thoughts ana 
opinions of others. Do you not agree with me, Mr. Aldenmede T 
she asked, turning quickly ; but the artist was talking to her husband, 
Bab was listening to Thorhilda’s pained regrets. 

In the background, under the cliffs, half a dozen fishermen were 
crossing the beach, David Andoe among them, suddenly silenced 
in the middle of a story he had been repeating. He had recognised 
Bab from afar ; he had seen that Hartas Theyn was one of the 
group ; and now he was passing on, saddened, depressed with a 
depression that did not escape the notice of his mates. And for 
all the singularity they counted him to have, David was yet a 
favourite among them : and a whispered word was fiashed along 
the little line of men like the lightning that goes before a storm. 
They understood, or believed that they did, and the new under- 
standing added to the old determination ; but the threat that Nan 
had heard was not repeated in David Andoe’s hearing. 

No one of the little groiip near the easel was dreaming of any ill 
to be. Mrs. Godfrey, as usual, equal to every occasion, was asking 
Mr. Aldenmede to dine at the Rectory on the following evening 
without ceremony. The Canon was talking to Hartas, sauntering 


94 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


on over the beach with him, drawing^ dowly from the yonth a con- 
fession of a twofold jealousy, and thoicfcre ia all probability cause- 
less on either hand. If Barbara wero carinj^ for David Andoe, she 
could certainly not be yielding to ai^y f incy or feeling that might 
come of intercourse with such a man as lX\mian Aldenmede. 

‘You perplex me altogether,* the Canon said half sadly, and 
trying to keep back all reproach from his tone. ‘ I can understand, 
believe me, I can understand more than you think of your unwise 
affection for Barbara Burdas ; but it seems to me that if you truly 
cared for her, you would not run the risk of alienating her for ever 
by such displays of small jealousy as this ! There is nothing small 
about Barbara. She will hardly endure behaviour of this kind ; 
and I confess that you surprise me by apparently endeavouring to 
see how much she will bear. . . . Yet don’t mistake me 1 I don’t 
mean to be hard or unsympathetic ; and I am sorry to see you 
suffering like this. But believe a man nearly twenty years older 
than yourself, and fifty years more experienced in the world’s ways ; 
believe me, when I say that you are not going the right way to 
work to win a large-hearted woman like Barbara Burdas. You are 
doing your utmost to repel her best and highest feeling. Perhaps 
I ought to be glad of this ; but I cannot, quite honestly, say that 
I am.* 

* Why not ?’ Hartas asked curtly, and with an evident disposition 
toward incredulousness. 

‘Why? • . . Well, shall I tell you the truth? Perhaps I had 
better I I am not glad, because I think I perceive that Barbara has 
some affection for you. If she have, it may save you I . . . There, 
you have all my reason !’ 

Slowly, half unwillingly, and with a whole shyness, Hartas drew 
his clumsy brown hand from his pocket, and offered it to the 
Canon’s grasp. 

‘ I thank you for say in’ that,’ the Squire’s son replied. ‘ An* I 
trust you — that’s more nor I can say for the most o’ folks. . . . 
Yes, I trust you. . . . An’ if I can help it. I'll go against you no 
more. I’ll be different from to-day, if I can. I’d like to be 
different. I've wished it a good bit. Thorhilda told you mebbe.’ 
(How strange it was that it should jar upon the Canon to hear his 
niece’s Christian name used familiarly by her own brother.) ‘ She’d 
tell you ’at I’d been tryin’ to make a change. But lately I’ve 
slipped back, an’ I've been aware of it ; but I couldn’t help it, bein’ 
so troubled ; havin’ no sort of hope nowhere. . . . But since you’ve 
told me that^ I’ll begin again. , , , I’ll begin at once I I can’t say 
no more !’ 

‘I am glad you’ve said so much,’ the Canon replied, with an 
extreme quietude of voice and manner. ‘ And I am sure you mean 
it. I won’t say any more now — only this : if you want help, help 
of any kind that I can give, will you come to me ? I’ll make things 
as easy for you as I can. . . . Promise me that you will come !’ 

‘Ay, I’ll promise that,’ Hartas said, in tones that made Hugh 


* THE HELP OF ONE WE HA VE HELPED: 95 

Godfrey look up with an unintended quickness ; he saw at once that 
the young fellow’s eyes were suspiciously bright, as with tears held 
back by very force. 

It was' Hartas who delivered that last silent moment from its 
awkwardness. 

‘ Good -day,’ he said suddenly, again holding out his hand ; ‘ I’ll 
go back to Garlaff by way o’ the Howes. It’s none so far round 
from hereabouts.’ 

The Canon watched him a little as he went onward, sending after 
him a yearning look, a sigh, a prayer. 

‘ There’s plenty of good in the lad yet,’ he said to himself, going 
back to the Ness. ‘ May God defend him from the powers of ill I’ 

CHAPTER XXIY. 

‘sweet the help of one we have helped.* 

‘ Some men are nobly rich, some nohhf poor^ 

Some the reverse. Hank makes do diherence.’ 

P. J. Baildy : Festus, 

Damian Aldenmede had accepted the invitation of the Godfreys 
to dine at the Rectory. 

‘ Come up to-morrow evening, if you can,’ Mrs. Godfrey had said. 
‘ There will only be ourselves, and perhaps Mr. Egerton and the 
Canon had warmly seconded the invitation ; adding, in his usual 
outspoken and simply cordial way : 

‘ One does not too often, in a small place like Yarburgh, have the 
chance of a chat with congenially-minded people. I hope you are 
remaining some time ?’ 

‘ It will depend upon my work,’ the artist had said ; and to 
Thorhilda’s half-unconscious regret, the reply confirmed her im- 
pression of his dependence upon his own effort. 

She could not help the sigh that came ; but she might, by means 
of strong effort, have resisted the making of comparisons that should 
not have been made, with that tendency to concession growing 
daily in her heart which Percival Meredith was daily expecting ; 
always waiting for it with a finely diplomatic patience. There 
should be no haste ; and, until the right moment came, no more 
pressure. 

Owing to the seclusion in which he lived, Damian Aldenmede had 
heard nothing of Miss Theyn’s supposed engagement ; though 
everywhere the matter was now spoken of as if no doubt existed. 
The artist was not a man to whom people could gossip ; even his 
landlady was learning this, somewhat to her perplexity. 

All day — that is, all his working day — he had been painting in 
Yarva Wyke. Bab and Ailsie had been sitting to him for about 
an hour ; but Bab’s mind had been too full of a recent event to 
permit of her being quite so perfect a model as she usually was. 

The story was soon told. In the night a scrow-steamer had cut 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


96 

her way through the herring-nets belonging to the Star of the 
North. There had been lights on board the fishing-boat ; every 
reasonable and usual precaution had been attended to, yet disaster 
had overtaken the poor fishermen in the hour of their midnight 
toil, 

‘ It means many a bright pound to us,’ Bab admitted, when at 
last the artist’s evident sympathy unloosed her tongue ; though 
even then she regretted the confession ; and added, ‘ of course, we 
share it among us. There’s five of us — we’ll get over it somehow.’ 

The artist hesitated a while, trying first to find the exact thought 
he wanted, then the word. It was not easy to find the latter on the 
spur of the moment. 

By way of temporising, he said, ‘ Is the name of the steamer 
known ?’ 

‘ Yes, they saw it on her stern fair enough as she sheered off. 
She was the Oriana., of Cardiff.’ 

‘And can no redress be had — I mean, cannot an action be brought 
to compel the owners of the vessel to pay at least something toward 
the damage done to the nets ?’ 

Bab laughed, a sad, sarcastic, understanding little laugh. 

‘ It is little you know,’ she replied, not meaning to be unflattering. 

‘ Why there’s never a week i’ the herring season but somebody’s 
nets is cut all to bits. An’ where d’ya think fisher-folks ’ud get the 
money to go to law, wi’ the lawyers all on the side o’ the rich 
owners ? It ’ud cost more to pay the law bills than you could get 
new nets for. No, we never think o’ seekin’ justice. The law isn’t 
for such as us ; an’ the owners an’ captains o’ them screw-steamers 
know it. They’d be. more careful if they’d any fear.’ 

Again the artist was silent for a moment. Presently, speaking 
with a grave considerateness, he said : 

‘ It seems to me then that there is only one earthly hope for you 
— the help of friends. For instance, since you have helped me so 
much — you and Ailsie, given me such help that in all probability 
my picture will be hung in the Grosvenor Gallery — that is a place 
in London where many beautiful pictures are hung, and sometimes 
sold — since you have given me this help, why should I not help 
you ? Why should I not provide your grandfather’s boat, or rather 
the one he has a share in, with new nets ? , . . I should like to do 
it ! Will you allow me ?’ 

Barbara’s face as she listened was certainly a study ; and one 
worthy of any portrait-painter’s best attention. The sadness that 
was half-amusement, the wonder that was half -pity, would have 
taxed any ordinary talent to the uttermost. 

‘ You’ll buy new nets for the Star 0’ the North .^’ she said, with an 
inquiring note in her accent not quite free from something that was 
almost derision. ‘ What d’ya suppose they’d cost ? Ninepence a- 
piece, mebbe ? or it may be you’d think of hevin’ to go as far as 
eighteenpence ! Eh, me ! Why, a new set complete 'ud never cost far 
sheyrt of a hundred pounds/ Think o’ that I An’ you to talk o’ 


‘ THE HELP OF ONE WE HA VE HELPED^ 97 

giving ’em, as one ’ud give a tramp ’at asked for a light for his pipe 
a fardeii box o’ matches ! Eh, but you mun know little o’ the 
valley o’ money if that’s how you think on it I New nets for a 
fishin’ coble ! It fair stuns one to hear ya talk !’ 

The artist had listened quite gravely, subdued his amusement to 
interest quite successfully. 

‘ A hundred pounds, did you say ?’ 

‘ Ay ! That’s what I said ! . . . Anyhow, buyin’ the nets at the 
very cheapest we’ll never get ’em for no less nor ninety.’ 

That is a large sum, relatively,’ the artist replied. . . . ‘ But — I 
do not tell you this by way of boasting ; quite the reverse — last 
year I sold a picture for about the same price. It was one that I 
had painted in a very short time, and happening to have no need of 
the money, I have not touched it. I had reasons for wishing not 
to put it to any of the ordinary uses of life. For one thing, it was 
the first picture I had ever sold ; for another ’ (and here the artist 
hesitated, and seemed embarrassed), ‘ for another reason, something 
had passed between the buyer of the picture and myself long ago, 
very long ago, that made me wish to put the money aside for some 
especial purpose, some emergency liappening to some life — not my 
own. It seems to me that this emergency is now before me. I 
could buy the nets ; and so far from missing the money, I should 
feel that I had, at last, freed myself from a trust.’ 

The look of wonder, of perplexity, was deepening on Barbara’s 
face ; sadness and wistfulness mingling with it. 

‘ There’s a lot o’ things you could buy for a hundred pounds !’ 
she said presently. 

‘ True ! I have told you why I cannot buy them, with that 
money. Though, please remember, I told you in confidence. 
Perhaps I do not need to add that.’ 

Barbara looked into his eyes steadfastly. 

‘ If I thought you mistrusted me once, you’d have no opportunity 
o’ doin’ it again,’ she said, adding, ‘Eh, but it does take folks a 
long time to know one another down to the bottom. !’ 

There was another brief silence before she spoke again. Evidently 
she had been thinking of the artist rather than of herself. 

‘ If ya couldn’t buy nought wi’ that money, ya might live in 
better lodgin’s. Yon’s noan a place for you !’ 

‘ Why not ? But, if it troubles you, I may say that I could, if 
I wished to do so, stay at the hotel. It is not on account of the 
expense that I prefer the Forecliif.’ 

‘At the “Empress o’ India,” ’ Bab said, rather to herself than 
quite aloud. It was only the other day that Mrs. Nossifer at the 
fish-shop in the Cliff Koad at Yarburgh had told her that the 
gentlemen who stayed at the new hotel at Ulvstan were charged 
a guinea a day for their food and lodging. Bab had accepts 
the fact as surprising, but not as one likely ever to concern her- 
self, or even anyone she might know. Now she recalled it in 
sileng^ 


7 


98 


IN EXCHANGE FOE A SOUL. 


‘ You have not given me any answer ?’ the artist said presently, 
in a tone of inquiry. ‘ Tell me what you are thinking.’ 

‘Tm thinking this/ Bab replied with a quite new emphasis, and 
tremulously conscious of a certain amount of daring. ‘ I’m thinkin’ 
’at you’re noan what you seem. . . . You’re noan one o’ them ’at 
paints pictures for a livin’.’ 

‘ No ? What makes you think that ?’ 

‘ Everything ! You’ve noan the manner, nor the bearin’ o’ them 
’at hes to depend on other folk for the bread they eat.’ 

Aldenmede paused a moment ; then he said : 

‘Granted, so far ! For if I am not working solely for my own 
bread, why should I not try to help those who must do so ? why, 
for instance, should you refuse to allow me to help you in a trouble 
that has unexpectedly come upon you ?’ 

Barbara looked at him again ; her lips were trembling with the 
imsaid words, but her thought was not for herself, nor wholly of 
the artist. She had others in her mind, others to whom this 
munificence would seem as a miraculous gift of God. 

‘You may help if you will,’ she said at last. The words might 
have been counted ungracious, but her manner, the emotion of it, 
neutralized all idea of that kind. ‘You may if you will,’ she 
repeated. Then, out of the fulness of her heart, rather than by 
aid of any shadow of impertinence, she added, ‘ I’d noan be surprised 
if ya turned out to be a duke.’ 

Much laughter was not in Aldenmede’s way, yet to his relief 
and to Bab’s he indulged for once. Presently, still smiling, he 
said : 

‘ I suppose, then, that all the surprise would be on my part ! 
Certainly it would be very great. . . , Believe me, your imagination 
is running away with you I’ 

‘ But noan sa far ?’ 

‘ Very far indeed.’ 

‘ You’ve no title o’ no sort ?’ 

‘ Not a shadow of one. I should like, I should very much like to 
write R.A. after my name, or even A.R.A., which means something 
much less. But I am talking idly. Enough of pleasantries of that 
kind. They are not so very pleasant after all. . . . And now it is 
all settled ! I may buy the nets ?’ 

‘ Will ya think on it till the mornin’ ?’ 

‘ No ; pardop me, I have given more than enough of thought to 
the matter. I have other things to think of.’ 

‘Yes ; so you have,’ Barbara replied after a moment of hesita- 
tion. ‘Things ’at’s mebbe even more to you nor that.’ . . . Then, 
with a swift change of tone, she said, ‘ You’re goin’ up there to get 
your dinner to-night — to the Rectory ?’ 

‘ Yes.’ 

‘ Do you like goin’ ?’ 

‘Yes. I am very glad to go.’ 

‘ I don’t doubt it. , . , , Yet I’m no^u envyin’ you.* 


* THE HELP OP OHE WE HA VE HELPED^ 99 


‘ No. I should not think that a common enviousness was much 
in your way.’ 

‘ You lean see that ? . . . Well’s it’s true. Still one can’t help 
thinkin’ sometimes ; sometimes wishin’ . , . Why is there such 
difference atween one an’ another ?’ 

‘Why indeed?’ 

The fisher-girl had set a problem that the educated gentleman was 
almost as unable to solve as she herself was, though he was not 
thinking about it now for the first time. Yet, seeing that the 
question had been asked in no bitterness of heart or mood, he did 
his best to make the girl perceive up to the point he himself 
perceived. 

‘ Why these differences between class and class exist is more than 
I can say,’ he answered. ‘ Perhaps it is more than anyone can say. 
It is enough for a reverent mind that they were ordained of God. 
Along the whole line of what we term sacred history there is proof 
of that from the day when we hear of the herdsmen who tended 
Abram’s cattle to this day. But there is proof also that God Him- 
self had a special regard for the poor. David perceived that ; and 
the mere fact of God’s own Son choosing a life of poverty should 
reconcile some of us who are very far from any true reconciliation. 
Still, it is a mystery. One might think, to read of the pauperism, 
the suffering of the poor of our own time, that God had forgotten 
them, or had, at least, forgotten to be gracious ; but that can never 
be. Why He permits such suffering I cannot tell ; but this I can 
tell, that it is the duty of everyone who is not suffering to do 
something for those who are ; to think of them and for them ; to 
try at least to comfort them in their sorrows ; to help them over 
their troubles ; in a word, to show them some friendliness, some 
human, loving-kindness.’ 

‘ It’s the poor ’at helps the poor, for the most part,’ said Bab, 
speaking almost like one in a dream. ‘ I could tell ya many a tale 
o’ things ’at’s happened at Ulvstan Bight, things ’at might surprise 
ya. It was yesterday ya were speaking o’ self-sacrifice, an’ I 
thought o’ some I know. We’re noan such a hard lot as you might 
think r 

‘ You shall tell me some of the tales before I go away ; that is if 
you will.’ 

‘ Before you go away I . . . . You’re noan goin’ 1 ’ 

The artist smiled not unpleasantly. 

‘ You did not think I had come to live in Ulvstan Bight, 
did you ?’ 

* Mebbe not,’ Bab replied. Then more wistfully she asked, 
* But ya’ll noan go till the picture’s done, will ya ?’ 

‘ I shall not need to stay here to finish it But I can do no 

more to-day Will you ask your grandfather to come and 

have a chat with me to-morrow morning ? I want to know more 
about those accidents to the fishing-nets.’ 


7—2 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


lod 


CHAPTER XXV. 

DAMIAN ALDENMEDE AT THE KECTORY. 

‘ Have you seen but a bright lily grow 
Before rude hands have touched it ? 

Have you marked but the fall of the sndw 
Before the soil has smutched it ? 

Have you felt the wool of the beaver ? 

Or swan’s-down ever ? 

Or have smelt o’ the bud of the briar ? 

Or the nard in the fire ? 

Or have tasted the bag o' the bee ? 

Oh, so white ! oh, so soft ! oh, so sweet is she !* 

Ben Jonson. 

It is strange how some men seem to change with the changing of 
the society about them ; there might even seem to be hypocrisy in 
such modifications, or at least weakness of will and character. 
But in truth these drawbacks are not always existent. A sensitive 
nature responds to its environment so unconsciously that it is often 
utterly unaware of its own facility in responding, and the too- 
friendly friend who shall point out the seeming inconsistency may 
give a thrust not lightly or easily borne. 

You are in trouble, or you have pain, apprehension, and you 
write a letter to an old friend who has known your history from 
first to last. Naturally, almost inevitably, you permit yourself the 
relief of an utter outpouring. You may know yourself to be even 
morbidly apprehensive, yet you dare to admit this ; you are aware 
that you are feeling some pain, mental and physical, with an undue 
keenness ; yet you can confess it, and this readily, gladly. Or 
some little bit of unusual joy has come in your way, and in 
unwonted exuberance of spirit you ask that your friend shall 
rejoice with you. In a word, you wear your heart, not on your 
sleeve, but on a sheet or two of note-paper. And, believe it always, 
the true friend is drawn to be truer ; he would scorn to betray you 
to even his own soul’s censure. 

That letter written, you write another to another correspondent, 
you date it with the same date, write it in the same hour ; yet this 
second letter shall be (without your being wholly aware of it) stiff 
and chill and pallid. Not only heart shall be missing, but soul, 
spirit, even intellect. 

Were these letters read out to you on a later day, in the 
presence, not of enemies (we none of us have enemies in these 
suave times), but of friends who are on sufficiently intimate terms 
with you to express the measure of their friendliness by the 
amount of their freedom, you would blush for your own apparent 
duplicity. It would seem nothing less than that. 

And yet there is no equivocation, no intentional or other insin- 
cerity. A man’s nature is manifold, and can turn this side to the 
friend who wins his confidence, this to the man whose talent he 


DAMIAN ALDENMEDE AT THE RECTORY loi 


admires, this to one who needs only a social courtesy so it is that 
he can meet so many other human souls with some human pleasure, 
some refreshment. It is only the narrow of spirit, the uncultured 
in social intercourse, who imagine that they discern mendacity 
in this varied face turned to a varying humanity. 

Naturally enough Damian Aldenmede was unaware that he was 
a different man to his host and hostess at the Rectory from that he 
had seemed to be to Barbara Burdas. To the latter he was genial, 
sympathetic, not caring to hide the fact that he was thoughtful 
for her present and her future. To the former he was a grave 
and comparatively silent man — in a certain sense evidently a man 
of the world, betraying a distinction of manner and aspect that 
instantly won its due regard. And yet the Godfreys, as well 
as their niece, were conscious of something to which they could put 
no name. To have used the word ‘ mystery ’ would have been 
to suggest something that none of them for a moment intended. 

He did not talk much of himself, this new guest, and no one at 
the Rectory, save Gertrude Douglas, made the slightest attempt to 
induce him to do so. And though it could not be said that he declined 
to respond to her effort, yet but little real knowledge was elicited. 
He was an Englishman, he had travelled much abroad, especially in 
Italy, and had been glad to return to his own country. He gave a 
decided impression of having nothing to hide ; but, on the other 
hand, he made it evident that he did not greatly care to permit 
himself to become a topic of conversation in his own presence. 
His host took care that his desire was respected. 

The dinner passed off as dinners at the Rectory always di4, 
pleasantly and easily. No display for display’s sake was visible ; 
no neglect or inadequacy tolerated. The Canon was in one of his 
happiest and most winning moods. Mr. Egerton was, as usual, 
equal to anything and everything that came in his way ; and the 
conversation sparkled about this topic and about that, as it will when 
people give themselves, for the lighter social hour, to interchange 
of the more superficial ideas of life and living. But gradually, 
almost inevitably, the stream deepened. * Before the evening was 
over the new guest was better comprehended at’Yarburgh Rectory. 

It was evident that he had intended no betrayal of himself. All 
unaware he was drawn by the Canon’s earnestness to confess his 
own ; perhaps confessing more than he was well aware of. 

‘ You say that it is weighing upon you more than anything else 
— the present condition of the poor of England, of your own 
parish,’ he had replied in answer to a remark the Canon had made. 
‘ I can well believe it. I have often thought that it must be even 
more terrible for a clergyman than for anyone else.’ 

‘ So it is ; he stands in such a different position towards the 
poor. He preaches a gospel of brotherhood, or professes to do so ; 
but mostly he refrains from details on that head in his sermons 
and perhaps wisely. For what does such brotherhood mean, 
for even the best of ns ? What do we really know of our brother ? 


102 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


What do we really care ? In the heart of us, what is the depth of 
our caring ?’ 

‘ Be moderate !’ interrupted Mr. Egerton, his spiritual face light- 
ing up with earnest entreaty. ‘ Don’t run the risk of giving a 
false impression. Mr. Aldenmede is a stranger ; he may take you 
at your own valuation !’ 

‘It would be wise of him to do so. Mr. Aldenmede has seen 
enough, known enough of humanity, to know that no man confesses 
himself a sinner who has not sinned ; not unless he has tendencies 
more or less morbid, an accusation of which I am not afraid.’ 

‘ Doesn’t it rather depend upon what one calls sin, or even error, 
or mistake ?’ the artist asked. ‘ With regard to the problem of the 
suffering poor we have all of us erred, most of us are yet erring ; 
but one is glad to see everywhere a certain sensitiveness on the 
subject, oft enough showing itself in irritation, annoyance, some- 
times in incredulousness, sometimes in an attempt to prove that 
each state of life has its own “compensations.” What can be the 
compensation for having no fire, no food, no clothing worth the 
name ; no decent bed even ; and only the most inhuman shelter ?’ 

‘ But,’ said Mr. Egerton, ‘ but short of that extreme of want, 
putting all such extremes aside for the moment, do you not think 
that even the life of the very poor has alleviations ?’ 

‘ Alleviations I’ exclaimed Aldenmede. ‘ Yes, thank Heaven ! 
One is glad to know that it has, to believe in it to the uttermost. 
I may say that some of the happiest and pleasantest people I have 
known have been people who were living from week to week. 
Alleviation I Their life is, in many cases, full of it ! So long as 
things keep on at the moderate level of possible living they have 
few cares, anxiety dies down, fear for the future is quiescent. 
Such people often have the kindliest feelings ; they have known 
trouble, sickness, loss, pain ; and these things have made them 
sympathetic, and sympathy brings them nearer to their friends and 
neighbours. Oh, “love in a cottage” is not a dream ! It may be 
an ideal ; but it might be the most magnificent, most beneficent 
ideal. It wants raising, however. The man who lives and loves in 
a cottage wants help for the most part, such help as can only come 
from those -who are somew^hat his superiors in culture, in insight. 
He wants teaching how to find delight in books, in music, in art, in 
all things lovely, and pure, and of good report ; the things that 
elevate thought, that awaken the beginnings of aspiration. He 
needs to be made to perceive that the mere possession of houses, of 
land, of capital, can do nothing to help his highest happiness ; to 
be shown how, in the simplest wayside cottage, life may be lived 
as its very best, life intellectual, life spiritual — nay, one might 
almost say the perfect life which has been the ideal of the saints 
from the first Christian century to this nineteenth. It has never 
died out, the grand vision. It never can. Perfection ! Well for 
the man who has not ceased to dream of it, to yearn for it, to 
work for it 1 If the mere yearning exists in any man, that man is 


DAMIAN ALDENMEDE A T THE RECTOR K lo^ 


to be envied. How to implant it where it does not exist should be 
one of the problems of the modern philanthropist.* 

Thorhilda had been seated at the piano for the last half-hour, 
now and then playing one of the softer of Mendelssohn’s Lieder, 
now and then stopping to listen, to say a few words to Gertrude 
Douglas, who was sitting with her embroidery near the table by the 
piano. It was evident that the evening was proving more or less a 
disappointing one to Miss Douglas ; and Thorhilda, seeing that 
such was the case, left the piano and went to the fireside, where her 
uncle stood on the rug, the new guest near him. Mrs. Godfrey 
was seated on the sofa by the fire. 

‘ Are you not tired of my uncle’s parochial conversation ?’ Miss 
Theyn asked, looking into Mr. Aldenmede’s sad grave face. ‘ Uncle 
Hugh, I know, will never be tired ; but he may weary other 
people. ... I often wish I were poor — quite poor, like Barbara 
Burdas, for instance ; then he would care for me !’ 

There was a pause. The artist was watching the piquant humour 
of the lovely face before him, the changing light in the gray 
appealing eyes, the tender winning smile with which she turned 
to her uncle. What sweetness such a woman was capable of putting 
into any home-life ! What beauty ! What grace ! Even for one 
evening to taste of such life, to feel the warmth of it, was like 
coming under some touch of enchantment. 

The artist had forgotten the reply he intended to make. ‘ Bar- 
bara Burdas !’ he said at last. ‘ What a good woman she is ! 
Speaking of the poor, of their desert, their endurance, where will 
you find a braver or a better girl ? Think of all that she has done, 
is yet doing, and by her own unaided strength, so far as human 
help is concerned ! She likes to keep up the fiction that her grand- 
father helps ; and naturally the old man likes to keep up the same 
comforting notion. But it is a notion utterly mistaken. She 
profits somewhat by his share, or part of a share, in the ^tav of the 
Norths but last year the sum was less than four pounds ; it did not 
pay for the rent of the house. And this year, owing to accidents, 
damage done by the trawlers, and such-like things, she is afraid it 
will be even less ; yet she never utters a word of complaint. It is 
old Ephraim who does the complaining, though he admits that 
he “ wants for nothing.” ' 

* The most striking thing about Barbara is her craving for know- 
ledge, for education,’ said the Canon, who knew a little of what 
was being said in the Bight as to the artist’s kindness in lending 
the girl books, helping her to understand them, and teaching her in 
a general way something of the right use and meaning of her own 
language. But the Canon made no direct reference to the subject, 
though he perceived that Miss Douglas was waiting with suspended 
needle for details of the matter. 

She was not to be gratified. Aldenmede replied only to what 
the Canon had said. 

‘ That is one striking thing ; another is her hatred of all coarse- 


tN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


fo4 

less or roughness, her desire for refinement ; and being surrounded 
»y things rough aud coarse, her duty seeming to lie amongst them, 
ler everyday life must be more or less one of pain to a sensitive 
nature. Yet I do not believe that she ever dreams of escape of 
iny kind ; that in one sense she can even be said to desire it. 
rhat is the touchstone. She does her duty, and more ; and being 
urged onward and upward by unseen influences she knows no con* 
tent in so doing. How should she ? -Contentment is not for such 
as Barbara. To be content is too often to know no aspiration for 
one’s self or for others, to know no sympathy, to have no human 
outlook, no passionate human desire for progress, for attainment of 
any kind. Contentment I It is for the cattle in the fields, that 
graze and fatten and die I Ho thinking human soul can in these 
days be contented.’ 

Thorhilda was listening, thinking, recalling the speech of another 
on the same topic, and as she thought her heart-beats came the 
faster. Was she not deliberately dreaming of this lower content ? 
And at what cost ? Never had the price seemed to be what it 
seemed now with this stranger standing by her uncle’s hearth, un- 
veiling his own heart, his own aspiration, all unknowingly. She 
shrank even from herself as she listened. It was as if some voice 
were heard drawing her from ease, from wealth, from luxury, 
entreating her to take some higher way. And, harder still, this 
higher way was made attractive. She could hardly help fearing 
that this stranger had read her true character. She seemed to dis- 
cern his perception in every look, every word. And the more she 
discerned, the more she was drawn to watch for further signs. 
Here, if anywhere, was the guide she had longed for, the one true 
helper, the one adequate friend. Again the feeling that she had 
first known on that day by the sea came back to her, but with 
redoubled emotion, and again it was followed by the remembrance 
that all such feelings must be put strongly away. 

‘ Strongly and surely,’ she said to herself that night in her own 
room as she walked up and down, trying to quiet her unsettled 
spirit, yet unable to put away from her mental vision that grave 
yet tender glance, to close her ears to the tones of the most sympa- 
thetic, and sad, and kindly voice she had ever heard. Now, for the 
first time, she realized what it was to be subjugated by a look, 
coerced by a turn of the head, silenced by another’s silence. What 
might it mean, this new and peculiar experience ? Whatever it 
meant it must be put away, and the sooner the better, the better for 
everyone concerned. ‘ It is evident he does not know,’ Thorhilda 
continued to herself, ‘ he has not heard of — of Mr. Meredith, of his 
friendship for me. He must know soon, very soon I Then it will 
be over — this — this unrest, this strain. It will all be over, and I 
shall be at peace. . . . Will he come again ? It would be better that 
he should not — better far. . , . Yet it would be pleasant, very pleasant. 
. . . And I am not a fool. . . . Indeed, now that I think of it, I should 
wi&h him to come to the Rectory again, that I might prove to my- 


/ MIND ME HOW WE PARTED THEN. loj 

self my self-possession. I wish it, certainly I do, and I wish that 
he may come soon I The sooner he comes the sooner will this 
unrest be ended.* 


CHAPTER XXVL 

I MIND ME HOW WE PARTED THEN. 

• So have I dreamed ! oh, may the dream be true ; 

That praying souls are purged from mortal hue, 

And grow as pure as He to Whom they pray.’ 

Hartley Coleeidgb, 

Damian Aldenmede, coming home in the moonlight alone, did 
not dream that Barbara Burdas was watching him from the side of 
the Forecliff, above the Sagged House. She stood in the shadow 
there, though it was nearly midnight, looking out over the cliff -top 
ways. The sea was rolling softly, breaking monotonously, even 
sadly for one in a sad mood ; and Bab*s mood was not of the 
brightest. An intolerable sense of yearning had possessed her all 
the evening, as if somewhere, some influence were drawing her 
from herself ; and the strain was so great that she found herself to 
be wearier than usual — weary of life, of light, of all things. Once 
David Andoe, had passed by, not stopping to speak, but looking at 
her as he went onward with the old heart-broken look that was 
growing to be so painful since Bab was learning what such pain 
meant. Yes, she knew now ; and as she stood there, thinking of 
the Rectory, trying to imagine what could be happening there, how 
each one would be looking at and speaking to the other, her know- 
ledge seemed to deepen ; and presently, when her thoughts wan- 
dered away to Garlaff, to Hartas Theyn, who might be there, or 
might not, she could not help dropping a quiet tear or two. The 
quietness was not the measure of the bitterness. 

‘ It*s hard to be sa lonely, an* to care so for others all the while ; 
an* all the while to know ’at you can never be nought to them,’ she 
said, half audibly. ‘ Mebbe I’d not mind it so if I weren’t sa lone I’ 

So she stood, wondering if perhaps the artist might pass that 
way— if he would stop and speak. It was one of Bab’s weak 
moments, and her soul was hungering for a word. All was so still 
in the little house behind her, where her grandfather slept, and the 
children ; all was so still on the land and on the sea ; and the very 
stillness seemed to have aching in it, and pain. 

‘ It is dree — oh it is dree !’ she cried softly to herself, clasping her 
hands, and lifting her eyes as if she would pierce the very stars foi 
a sign. But none came that night. Her appeal was a prayer ; but 
not yet was it to be answered. 

Bab did not see when the artist passed out of sight. The road 
was hidden by a point of the green cliff-top, and he did not reap- 
pear on the shoreward pathway. It was as she guessed. He had 
been drawn by the beauty of the night to go down to the rocks 


io6 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUE 


below, where the moonlight was qnivering upon the wrack-fringed 
pools that the sea had left. He went on rapidly over the way he 
knew so well now ; keeping mainly to the shelving banks of sea- 
worn gravel that had collected just below the sand-dunes under the 
cliff. The moon was still sparkling upon the sea ; brightly, yet 
softly ; the small waves were still breaking with far faint murmur- 
ings. All was bright light, or deep shadow ; all was silence, and 
peace, and beauty. 

And all was calm, save the heart and brain of the man who was 
walking rapidly, fighting with himself, with a new and strong 
temptation ; a temptation that had come upon him suddenly, and 
yet not all undreaded. There had been a moment of warning ; a 
soul wounded long ago had spoken words of entreaty to a heart not 
yet beyond the possibility of further wounding. He had listened, 
promised obedience— and now the chance of keeping his promise 
was threatened grievously. But he was well aware. 

The very rapidity of his movement betrayed the force of the 
emotion that was impelling him onward, beyond the Bight, beyond 
the Ness, beyond the rocks and caves he knew so familiarly. 

It had not been so before. Love had come to him with all the 
soft and sweet enchantment of love. He had not known or 
dreamed of resistance. 

Now all was otherwise. He had loved ; he had been betrayed ; 
he had suffered — suffered so that he dreaded love as a man might 
dread the most desolating disaster his human life could know. 

Until this evening he had seen, and clearly, all that a second such 
passion might mean to him ; now he saw no longer. Here was the 
one serious sign of the pass to which he had come. Now he could 
perceive nought save the drawing, the delight, the good, the happi- 
ness — the most perfect happiness ever beheld by him, even in his 
most perfect vision. 

All the drear dread days of his penance poured their depths into 
this day ; all the lost days of his delight returned their essence 
upon this. 

‘ I have been as one dead,* he said to himself as he went onward ; 
T have had life, and yet I have not lived ; I have had the appear- 
ance of living without the reality ; I have professed belief in 
hoping, whilst I myself was hopeless ; I have taught loving, whilst 
I myself was loveless. And now — whither am I being led? 
May all that is good guide me ; all that is ste-ong strengthen me. for 
I would not willingly fall — no, I would not fall again — such falling 
is too terrible. Half my life has gone in trying to recover from 
that last undoing, and I thought its effect not yet over. Was it 
over ? It is a dozen years since — more than a dozen, I think ; but 
I hardly know, since time has gone by on wings so broken — now 
speeding feverishly, now halting faintly — but never at a natural 
pace. . . . And what does this portend, this change, this sudden 
glow of light — the light of hope? Another disaster? or compen- 
sation for the last ? , • . If it might mean the latter, if it might ! 


* 7 MIND ME HOW WE PARTED THEN* 107 


Dare I think it will ? Does Fate ever take a sudden turn in the 
middle of a man’s life, lifting him from the lowest depth of nega- 
tion to the supreme height of fulfilment ? Is it possible ? There 
are those who declare that it is not — that a life once certainly set 
on ill-fated lines can come to no true point of turning, of real 
escape ; but that I do not believe, I have never believed it ; too 
much lies in a man’s own hand for any pre-dooming of that kind to 
be taken as a rule. No ; it could never be ! Far better the old and 
worn-out proverb that declares that it is a long lane that has no 
turning ! . . . Dare I hope that I have come to a turning ? . . . 
How good she looks ! how pure ! how true ! Her every expression 
has sympathy in it, and perception, with now and then faint touches 
of something that is almost sadness. It is like a question, that sad 
look, like an appeal ! More than once I longed to know her thought, 
as if it must be something needing help, needing consolation. . . . 
Shall I see her to-morrow ? AVill she come down to the beach ? 
Shall I venture there, or shall I fly by the first train to-morrow 
morning ? ... If I did — if I even did that, my life would no more 
be the life it has been !’ 

So absorbed had Damian Aldenmede been in his own reflections 
that certain sounds, not very distinct or aggressive, had fallen upon 
his ear almost without his noticing them ; then all at once it seemed 
to him that he heard human voices in the distance, voices that 
seemed raised in anger or distress. The sound came from beyond 
the point of the dark rock that stretched across the beach ; and 
very naturally he hastened onward, feeling more and more certain 
each step that he should find someone in need of assistance. But 
all at once, just as he rounded the point of rock, the sounds fell 
upon the air, fell to a lower tone, and more pathetically moving. 

Before he saw the dark figure kneeling upon the sands he knew 
that only one voice was uplifted, the voice of a man in a very 
agony of prayer. Instinctively he stood still, took off his hat, and 

E "rayed with and for the lonely suppliant, who knelt with bared 
row and uplifted hands under the midnight sky. No thought of 
retreating occurred to the artist. 

He did not at first dream that it was David Andoe who knelt 
Ihus. That it was one of the fishermen of the neighbourhood he 
knew by the tone and the dialect ; but by-and-by he discerned that 
it was the man whose love for Barbara Burdas was apparently one 
of the chief topics of conversation at Ulvstan. 

He was near enough to hear most of the words that fell tremu- 
lously from the man’s lips ; touching, simple words they were ; and 
though in a sense familiar, they were yet reverently uttered. 

‘ Oh, Jesus I’ he was saying, ‘ let ma speak yet again, an’ yet again 
hear ma whiles Ah’m speakin’ I Ah’ve never another friend — no, 
not one ’at cares ; an’ my heart’s well-nigh breakin’ wi’ sorrow. 
Ah’m fair sick wi’ sorrow, an’ worse nor that, my sorrow’s leadin’ 
me inta sin. Ah’m thinkin’ on her when Ah should be thinkin’ o' 
Thee ; prayin’ ’at she may turn te me when Ah’d better be prayin’ 


io8 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


for grace te turn more wholly to Thee. All my prayers is tainted 
wi’ the thought of her, an’ of tens enuff Ah can’t pray at all. Ah 
can’t see Thee for the sight of her cornin’ atween ; an* what can 
Ah do ? What can Ah do to stop my heart fra achin’ an’ yearnin’ ? 
What can Ah do ?’ 

And then the pleading voice fell a little, the words became in- 
distinct, and Aldenmede would have turned away silently, as he had 
come ; but he could not ; some constraining force of sympathy drew 
him a little nearer. He would speak with David Andoe when his 
prayer was ended. The words were more audible again now. 

* Whatever happens to me, be good te her^ the poor fellow was 
continuing. ‘ Let no trouble come anigh her. Keep her fra doin’ 
aught ’at’s wrong, aught ’at ’ud bring misery to her afterward. An’ 
if she has ony sorrow now, do Thou comfort it Thyself., wi’ that 
love o’ Thine, that love ’at Ah can’t yet feel rightly mysel’. Some- 
how Ah know it’s there ; Ah believe in it wi’ my head, but Ah 
can’t get hold on it wi’ my heart, not so as to feel happy wiv it, and 
satisfied. That s what Ah’m wantin’, but Ah can’t get hold on it. 
Ah niver could, not so as te be no help te me when Ah was needin’ 
help. . . . An* Ah need it noo ! if fiver Ah wanted upholdin’ Ah 
do to-night ! Ah’m sa despert lone — Ah’m a’most faint wi’ lone- 
ness an’ unfriendedness, an’ wi’ the want o’ peace ; Ah’ve no peace 
nowheres, not even a place where Ah can lie my head i’ peace. . . . 
An’ mebbe it hes te be so, mebbe it hes, so as Ah may larn ’at 
there’s no peace nowheres oot o’ Thee — none hut that ^ at passes all 
understaniHn\ . . . God gie me that — that precious peace !’ 

Once more the pleading voice trembled and failed, and by-and-by 
another sound came upon the wind, the sound of painful, convul- 
sive sobbing. The moon was half hidden in a nest of clouds, there 
were shadows upon the sands of the Bight. Then by-and-by all 
was still, silent. 

The fisherman, yet kneeling, heard the steps upon the beach be- 
hind him, and rose to his feet just as the moon swept herself free 
of the clouds that were driving on. He recognised the artist, who 
spoke at once. 

‘ Forgive me,’ he said in kindly and sympathetic tones. ‘ I had 
not dreamed of finding anyone on the beach so late. ... I was 
walking here because I was troubled, not thinking to find anyone in 
the same trouble, or nearly the same, as my own. Believe me, I 
meant no intrusion.’ 

David hesitated awhile. He had heard much of what had been 
said on the Forecliff about the stranger’s influence over Barbara, 
but the freemasonry which exists between one true soul and another 
had hitherto prevented him from having any doubt, any fear of the 
artist. Yet now for a moment all was changed. Andoe was trying 
to collect himself so far that he might do no injustice to another, 
but in his large sympathy not much effort was needed. 

‘ Ah’m noan sure as I understand, sir,’ he replied. ‘ You’ve heard 
me, you’ve heard as Ah was i’ trouble, an’ you saay your trouble’s the 


* J MIND ME HOW WE PARTED THEN.' 109 

same as mine. . . . Do Ah understand ya rightly ? — ^you’re carin’ 
for for Barbara Burdas ?’ 

The poor fisherman could not see the expression on the artist’s 
face ; ’^t might have been helpful to him if he could. 

‘ For Barbara Burdas I’ Aldenmede exclaimed in a tone most com- 
forting. ‘ I was not even thinking of her at tne present moment, 
except in connection with yourself. No ; to prevent misunder- 
standing, let me say plainly that I was thinking of someone else, 
and for sympathy’s sake I may add, someone who is troubling me 
much as Barbara is troubling you. I think it was this drew me to 
come and speak to you, instead of turning back, as I was moved to 
do at first. ... I thought that perhaps I might say a word to com- 
fort you, or, if not that, I thought that mere sympathy might be 
some consolation. I have often in my life found it so — that to 
speak with one who had endured the same suffering as myself was 
in some subtle way very helpful.’ 

‘ Ah doan’t doobt,’ said the fisherman, only half understanding 
much that he had heard. Presently he said, ^ You’ve seen a good 
bit o’ Barbara lately, sir ?’ 

* Yes, I have ; and I may add that the more I have seen of her 
the better I have liked her.’ 

‘ That was certain. , . . But you spoke o’ comfort — surely you’d 
never ha’ done that if you’d known all they were sayin’ — the folks 
i’ ithe toon — ’at she’s only one thought, an’ that for the Squire’s 
son.’ 

‘ I have heard of that. ... I have thought of it. I may say 
that I have thought of it a good deal.’ 

* D’ya know him, sir ?’ 

* I have seen him once.’ 

‘ Then that would be yesterday — yesterday afternoon ?’ 

* Yes, so it was ! It seems a week ago !’ 

‘ Ah were passin’ by at the time — me an’ my mates. An’ ’twere 
th at made my heart sa sore, that drove me out here last night, an’ 
again to-night, to seek for a spot where Ah could be alone. . . . 
Ah’d noa other place.’ 

‘And I have disturbed you ? . , . I am sorry, very sorry ! But 
I meant well.’ 

‘ That Ah’m sure on,, sir. An’ since you’ve spokken so kind. Ah 
may saay ’at more nor once Ah’ve wished ta hev speech o’ ya. 
Knowin’ ’at you’d influence over Bab, Ah thought mebbe ’at if ye 
knew all ya’d say a word for me. Ah believe — naay. Ah know — as 
she’d take a deal o’ notice o’ what you saay. . . , An’ hoo can Ah 
tell ya the rest ? Hoo can Ah tell you o’ the one she seems to ha’ 
set her heart on ? Ah noan wish te be guilty o’ the sin o’ evil- 
speaking — a sin ’at surely does such harm i’ the world as only Satan 
hisself can know on — noa ; God helpin’ me, Ah’ll noan saay aught 
again him as Ah can help. Ah’ll only ask ya ta think for yourself 
as ta whether one like me, ’at’s plashed i’ the saut water for my 
bread even sen Ah was eleven years old, ’ud be more likely te win 


no 


TN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


bread for her an^ hers nor a skip- jack like yon, *at’s walked the eth 
wiv his ban’s in his pockets an’ a pipe in his mouth, well-nigh iver 
sen he could walk at all ? Ah’ll leave it to you, sir, te think that 
question oot, and then to act as seems ya best. Ah’ll saay nought 
o’ myself o’ my oan trouble. . Mebbe you’ve heerd anuff. An* 
if Ah’ve said aught o* him Ah shouldn’t ha’ said, aught ’at sounded 
like malice or a bad sperrit, why, then, forgive it, please, sir, an’ 
forget it. Ah noiin meant ta be malicious.’ 

It was only a word or two that Damian Aldenmede said in reply 
— a word of assurance, of comprehension. But the fisherman went 
on his way comforted ; the artist went on his way somewhat per- 
plexed, yet with a very definite picture in his own mind of David 
Andoe’s happiness by some cottage fireside with Barbara Burdaa 
for the spring and inspiration of his happiness. 

And a touch of something that was almost envy came with the 
vision. A home fireside, a happy home! Surely that was the 
Alpha and Omega of human felicity I Given the highest hopes, the 
highest ambitions, even aspirations, yet when were such ever reached 
by men whose home-life was chilled, embittered ? Loneliness might 
be endurable^ but it was only that. The man who had no sustenance 
save such as came to him from contact with the outer world was a 
man to be pitied indeed. His life could know no true encourage- 
ment, no true support. In times of failure, or of pain, what had 
he to rest upon for consolation ? In hours of success, if such came 
to him, of what value was the thing that men were congratulating 
him upon ? It had not even a name of any real import. It was 
not happiness ; it was not content ; it was not felicity ! Success 
was hardly successfulness to the man who must meet his day’s end- 
ing in an empty room, by a lonely fireside, with not a hand to clasp 
his in the warmth of the new emotion ; not a voice to say, ‘ Well 
done’ ; not a heart to beat in unison with his own heart’s increased 
pulsation. 

Much of the artist’s thought as he went homeward was for him- 
self, much for David Andoe and Barbara Burdas ; and the strong 
feeling he had for the latter found some expression in his conver- 
sation with Barbara ; but to his regret he was quickly made to 
perceive that his words were but as snowflakes upon a running 
stream of contrary emotion. Bab had no thought of David Andoe, 
save of his pain and of his trouble, of which she was but too well 
aware ; she had no other thought of him. 

‘ Don’t speak of it,’ she had said in conclusion. ‘ Don’t speak of 
it never again. . . . My life’s over — all that’s worth the name o’ 
life. I’ll live, God helpin’ me ; I’ll live for many a year yet. I 
mun do that for the sake o’ them ’at needs my life. Ya can teD 
David that — it may quiet him ; it’s quietin’ for me. . . . Yes ; just 
tell him that my life’s o’er. . . . I’ve made the last moan I’ll make 
i’ this world, or so I think I There’s no knowin’ what’s i’ store,’ 


A WILD night's work. 


Ill 


CHAPTER XXYIL 

A WILD night’s work. 

* A man can have but one life and one death. 

. . . . Let me fulfil my fate. ’ 

floBERT Browning, 

Afterward, long afterward, it was said that there had been a 
settled plan for the work of that wild night in the Bight of Ulvstan; 
but the saying was untrue. The whole, fronoi first to last, was a 
consecutive series of accidents, undesigned, and in a certain sense 
unpremeditated : one leading to aj^other by the sort of inevitable- 
ness that is not so uncommon in human life, as anyone might 
perceive who was careful in noting such sequences. 

It all happened on the night following that on which the artist 
and David Andoe had met so unexpectedly on the beach. Neither 
had then dreamed of what the next night was to bring. 

As it has been told, they met and separated somewhere about 
midnight. The artist had gone home, but not to rest ; sleep was 
impossible. The only possible thing was bewildering and torturing 
thought. Before dawn he rose, went down to the sea for his bath, 
and returned to the Forecliff to watch the grand stormy rising of 
the sun. It was impressive that morning beyond description. 
The rose-red bars lay straight across the sky between bars of 
orange - vermilion, and these again were bounded by bands of 
burning scarlet. Not the faintest, floating, formless cloud disturbed 
the impression made by the long, unbroken, glowing lines. No 
painter — not even Turner himself — might even have attempted to 
reproduce such a, sky ; its calmness of form, its dazzling luminous- 
ness of colour, its tragic glow of intensity. All the morning the 
influence of it was upon the receptive mind of 'the artist. He 
expected some sudden storm to arise ; and when, about noon, ‘the 
sun was obscured, the whole sky overspread by a gray, leaden 
cloud which showed only a rift here and there, disclosing the aerial 
silver fields beyond, he felt that the change was but the precursor 
of something wilder and more majestic. Yet no wind had arisen 
as yet ; not a ripple disturbed the cold ominous gray of the bound- 
less sea. 

So the evening closed in ; a dead leaden colouring was upon tho 
outdoor world everywhere. The great gray gulls flapped their 
wings slowly between a gray heaven and a grayer world of waters. 
Hardly a sail was visible in the offing. The herring fleet had gone 
northward, and was in safer shelter than that afforded by Ulvstan 
Bight ; only a pleasure-boat or two remained moored by the quay. 
The greater part of the smaller craft of the place had been drawn 
up to the Forecliff ; they were better there. 

It might be eight o’clock when Barbara came out to the door of 
the Sagged House, glanjing to the north and to the south with her 
usual discerning glance. Not a star had appeared ; no moon might 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


It2 

pierce that dense cloud-pall which had seemed to hang lower and 
yet lower each time she had observed it. And ever the same 
ominous stillness brooded beneath, upon the land, and upon the 
deep, chiU darkness of the pitiless sea. 

‘ It’ll be on us afore mornin’ T Bab said to herself, turning to go 
indoors again. ‘ Thank God ’at most about here’s i’ shelter. There’ll 
noan be a soul I know out on yon sea to-night.’ 

It was growing colder now — much colder. A little later Damian 
Aldenmede, sauntering down to the beach to smoke his last cigar, 
was surprised by the change in the temperature. 

‘ If I remain at Ulvstan much longer I shall have to write and 
ask Carel to send me a greatcoat or two,’ he said audibly as he 
increased his pace. 

Still he remained there, walking up and down between the Ness 
and the Forecliff, now facing north and now south, but finding not 
much difference whichever way he turned. It was a strange night. 
The mere air, which was hardly stirred as yet, seemed to have the 
force and the peculiar biting quality of a strong north-easter, 
though such wind as there was came off the land. And there was 
no change either on the ocean or in the sky. The cloud-mass still 
loomed above, seeming as if fain to drop its gloomy weight upon 
the wide, and dark, and gloomy sea. 

At last the sigh arose — the long, low, tristful sigh, the first 
breath of the storm, which seemed to sweep across the face of the 
water with a sadness like to that of the sigh that is heard before 
the last breath passes from out the lips of the dying. 

The storm sigh rises, it sweeps onward, not comii_^ to a moan, 
not fluttering or hurrying the lightest wavelet. There is no visible 
sign — yet you see it ; there is only the faintest audible sound, yet 
you not only hear it, but, hearing, you shiver, and, if you have 
dread for anyone, turn faint for the strife to be. 

Then the pause comes— a dead stillness, as if the natural progress 
of the world were arrested. One might imagine that the earth 
itself had ceased to move. 

But this is only for awhile ; sometimes it is a very brief while, 
sometimes it is longer. Of this evening it was afterwards said 
that this strange interval had lasted so long that it was thought 
that the storm might be passing by without breaking on this part 
of the north-eastern coast. 

It was at the very beginning of the calm period that a little 
band of men came out from the small inn on the quay, known as 
the Cod and Lobster. They were fishermen, all of them : and 
two, Jim Tyas and John Scurr (Lang Jack, the name he was better 
known by), were David Andoe’s mates, and each held sharej in the 
Star of the North, David was not among them. The /Stor of the 
North was with a portion of the herring-fleet off Danesborough ; 
and David, with Will Scurr and Luke Furniss, had remained on 
board. The two others had walked over to Ulvstan for the night, 
as they often did. They would return at daybreak. 


A WILD NIGHTS WORN. 


113 


Most of the evening they had spent in the little inn, smoking 
long clay pipes, drinking muddy beer, denouncing trawlers and 
steamers, gossiping of this neighbour and of that, but more than 
all of David Andoe and his trouble. They were angry, but not 
excited, when they went out, so Ann Stamper, the lone old woman 
who was landlady of the Cod and Lobster, had said afterward, and 
there her testimony ended. She knew nothing more. 

They sauntered on awhile, the four men ; then Lang Jack went 
home, as he was in the habit of doing, having a wife capable of 
eliciting the ‘ reason why ’ when he did not. It was after ten now, 
yet the others stood about on the narrow, rugged quay, and then 
went down to the beach, still smoking, still angrily discussing the 
manner and method of the revenge they meant to take when 
opportunity served. One was for adopting the time-honoured 
and effective process known as ‘ tarring and feathering another, 
in a moment of bitterness, had suggested that the Squire’s son 
should be decoyed on board some vessel in the offing and subjected 
to the punishment known as keel-hauling.^ But since Hartas 
Theyn had one day done some small kindness to Samson Verrill's 
little son, Sampey had demurred to these more violent measures. 

‘ Let’s give him a duckin’, an’ ha’ done wi’ it,’ Sampey said. 
‘ Let’s pop him under water at the point o’ the Ness at high-tide, 
and then let him go.’ 

And thereupon Jim Tyas had given expression to his opinion 
that Yerrill was a sneak and a spiritless coward. Sampey was not 
a man to bear such an accusation tamely. His pipe was dashed 
down, his jacket off, before the others were aware of his inten- 
tion. 

‘ Come on — we’ll fight that oot, thoo an’ me !’ he said with 
subdued passion. 

Of course, Jim Tyas was ready. Richard Reah had no thought 
of interfering ; and in the light of- later events it seemed almost 
sad that interference should have come in any shape whatever. 
Before the first blow had been struck, a step came up quickly 
behind ; a stranger’s voice broke in hurriedly : 

‘ What’s up ? Who’s goin’ to fight in the dark, an’ at this time 
o’ night ? What’s the row about T 

There was yet no moon ; but a rift in the heavy purple-black 
cloud disclosed a steely glare that enabled the fishermen to recog- 
nise that this stranger was no other than the man whose conduct 
they had been discussing, whom they had been desiring to get into 
their power by any means. And now, when the hot blood of anger 
was already coursing along their veins, it was surely the worst of 
moments for him to come in contact with them. Before he knew 
what had happened he was struggling with the three men — three 

* For the benefit of the uninitiated it may be explained that keel-hauling 
was a mode of punishment used at sea in. former times. The offender, 
having heavy laden weights attached to his feet, was dragged by means of 
ropes to and fro under the keel of the ship. 


8 


114 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


against one — and two of them certainly mad against him. For 
Dick Reah had thought of Bab almost as long as David Andoe 
had done ; though a certain rude sense of honour had restrained 
him from expressing his preference by other than indefinite ways 
and means. Yet Bab knew, and he was aware that she knew ; and 
the knowledge kept up a certain amount of uneasy sensation on 
either side. Certainly the feeling he had for her added to the 
strength of the present moment’s passion. 

Sampey Yerrills voice was the only one heard above the strife : 

‘ Let him hev a chance !’ Yerrill pleaded. ‘ It’s noan fair, three 
again one I . . . An’ give him a chance o’ speakin’ I Let’s hear if 
he’s owt to saay for hissel’. Let him speak !’ 

‘ Speak !’ exclaimed Jim Tyas breathlessly. His blood was up as 
thoroughly as that of Hartas Theyn, who was struggling to defend 
himself in no unscientific manner. ‘ Speak ! He’s spokken ower 
much. . , . We’ll put a stop tiv his speakin’ !’ 

‘ Mak’ him promise I’ shouted Dick Reah. ‘ Mak him promise ’at 
he’ll niver oppen his lips to Bab Burdas ageean ; ’at he’ll niver 
come near her, nor even near the hoose she lives in. . . . Give him 
that chance. Mak’ him promise ; an’ then give him a good dressin’ 
and let him go.’ 

The suggestion seemed fair enough, but it was not readily acted 
upon. The strife continued for a few moments because the im* 
petus accumulated did not permit of its being stopped all at once. 
The fishermen had been trying to bring Hartas to the ground, but, 
strange to say, they only succeeded after some difficulty. He had 
more muscular strength than they had anticipated, and he had 
some knowledge of the science of self-defence. At last, however, 
they were successful, and Reah repeated his suggestion. 

‘ Ya hear what Dick says ?’ Jim Tyas asked, when Hartas was on 
his feet again. * Ya hear that ? If ya’ll promise we’ll let ya go, 
for te-neet. Ah’ll noan saay it. means peace for iver ; but ya can 
goa for this time, if ya promise — promise to keep away fra Bab 
Burdas, fra the hoose she lives in — naay, fra the varry toon I’ 

‘ I will not make one of those promises,’ Hartas replied firmly 
and clearly. 

He was not blind to his position. He knew himself to be at the 
mercy of three strong, unscrupulous, vengeful men — men to whom 
revenge was as a natural instinct, not to be subdued without dread 
of the slur of effeminacy. 

Yet he did not yield. 

‘ I will not make one of those promises,’ he said ; and the reply 
came quickly : 

‘ You’ll either promise or you’ll go where there’ll be no more 
chance o’ promisin’.’ 

^ Then I choose the latter/ 

‘You do ?’ 

‘I do.’ 

*Wi’ yer eyes oppon ? 


A WILD night's work. 


*15 


* More open than yours appear to be/ 

* Then hev at him, mates !’ Jim Tyas exclaimed savagely, pre- 
paratory to suiting his action to his word ; but Sampey made 
another effort to arrest Jim’s wild, mad impetuousness. 

‘ It’ll noan do to murdther the fool — remember that ; an’ that’ll 
be the end on’t afore we know, if we doan’t tak’ care. . . . Noo think 
a minnit, Jim ! An’ let’s thry this— let’s put the idiot into yon 
boat o’ Dandy Will’s, an’ row him oot to sea, an’ leave him there — 
leave him if he won’t promise, fetch him back if he will !’ 

The suggestion was no sooner made than steps were taken to 
carry it into effect. Hartas Theyn was bound with the ropes that 
were only too ready, and then placed in one of the tiny, gaily- 
painted little pleasure-boats that had been moored alongside the 
quay. The oars had been removed when the boat was ^ade fast. 
Very speedily the men launched it, placed themselves in another 
and a larger one, took the little craft in tow, and made ready for 
starting. At the last moment Sampey Yerrill shouted : 

‘ Promise I’ 

‘ Never I’ 

Away the two boats went, the fishermen pulling as if their lives 
depended on their exertions, and in a few minutes they were out 
upon the wide black ocean, full of revenge, of triumph, of deter- 
mination. 

And Hartas Theyn’s determination was as strong as theirs. 
Though he lay in the boat, bound hand and foot, shivering with 
cold now that the struggle was over and he was out upon the dark 
heaving water, he yet kept his courage. 

He was aware that the battle would be fought out at sea, too far 
from the land for any sound to be heard, any help afforded ; yet 
no thought of breaking his resolve came to him. No promise 
should be wrung from him by such means as this. 

Ayith all his faults, he was yet no coward, and the stubbornness 
natural to his race might almost be counted as a virtue in a crisis 
like this. 

He knew that the present action was the result of no deep-laid 
plot ; yet had it been, so it could hardly have been more effective 
for the purpose of the men who were concerned in it. They were 
still pulling to the utmost of their power. Hartas, raising himself 
in the boat, watched the receding lights of the Bight, and knew 
that they were going rather to the north than to the south, though 
he was well aware that this would signify but little to him if they 
fulfilled their threat. And that they would fulfil it he knew but 
too certainly. 

Till now that strange calm had lasted, brooding ominously upon 
earth and sea ; but Hartas became aware that change was im- 
pending. A breeze was rising, beginning to sigh and wail ; a chill, 
piercing breeze it was, and the lapping of the waves by the very 
edge of the little boat was a dreary sound in the ear of the man 
who lay there anticipating the coming ordeal, and nerving himself 

8-2 


ii6 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


for it with what strength was left him. But even yet he was 
unshaken by any thought of yielding, of surrender. 

If it came to the worst, he could die, and some day Bab might 
come to know how and why he had died. That was the one com- 
forting thought that he had ; she might come to know, she might 
even regret. And strange to say it did comfort him, even this — 
that by his death he might win 

* Such tears 

As would have made life precious. 

Strange it is, and sad, that a human life should so often miss the 
one human preciousness — the preciousness of love, with all the 
sympathy, all the compassion, all the sustenance that a worthy love, 
includes ! 

Strang^ and sad, for you, for me, if we have so missed that best 
lasting good ; stranger and sadder far to have known it and lost 
it I Ah, that bitter, that unspeakably bitter losing ! 

Was Barbara Burdas to find how bitter it was ? Were there 
any others who might see and suffer, but too late f 


CHAPTER XXYIII. 

‘alone, alone, on a wide, wide sea I* 

* Then all was still. Upon me fell the night, 

And a voice whispered to me, “ Life is Past." * 

John Payne. 

Still the two boats went onward over the dark heaving sea ; the 
three rowers rowing swiftly and silently as might be, under the 
dark silent sky. 

It was past midnight now ; the heaving water was heaving more 
strongly against the sides of the little boat ; the heavy pall of cloud 
was beginning to break and scatter and drift wildly across the 
heavens ; now disclosing a glimpse of the wan moon that was 
riding high by this time, yet veiling her face, as if not wishing to 
look upon that scene of cruelty, of inhumanity. 

Hartas Theyn was still awaiting the coming moment with 
sufficient fortitude ; and almost he persuaded himself that he was 
indifferent. Truth to say, young as he was, he was very weary 
life had never been a very happ}^ or very pleasant thing to him. He 
had been to blame, as he knew, and had confessed. He had lived idly, 
carelessly, thoughtlessly ; and, worse than all (it seemed worse now 
in this hour of testing), he had resisted the help of those who 
would have helped him from himself. This was the painful sting 
that lent its piercing to the chill of the wind on the midnight sea. 

Yet it did not embitter his thought or emotion. When at last 
the rowers laid their oars on the rowlocks, and after brief con- 
sultation turned to him, though bis «’e termination was as resolute 


^ ALONE, ALONE, ON A WIDE, WIDE SEA / 117 

as before, he was less vehement in the expression of it. He did 
not even take the trouble to raise himself from the side of the boat 
in which he lay bound. 

Unfortunately Jim Tyas was the spokesman ; the rancorous and 
truculent one of the three, though it may be that Dick Keah was 
not far behind in evil will. 

‘ Here’s a last chance for ya !’ Jim shouted, standing up in the 
stern of the larger boat, and hauling the grating tow-rope as he 
spoke so as to bring the two boats nearer. ‘A last chance 1 Grive 
us yer word an’ honour ’atya’ll keep away fra’ Barbara Burdas, an’ 
fra’ the Forecliff, an’ we’U row ya back to the quay wi’ niver 
another word I But refuse, an’ you’re left driftin’ here, oot at sea, 
ov a dark night, with never so much as a sail i’ sight, an’ wi’ never 
a bite o’ meat, nor a sup o’ water ; left to drift te the north, or te 
the south, as wind and wave may take you — or what’s likelier far, 
left to drift downwards to the bottomless pit. Tak’ yer choice.’ 

‘I’ve done so already.’ 

‘ An’ yer mind’s noan changed ?’ 

‘ Never for a second.’ 

‘ It may be as you’re ower much of an idiot to tak’ in what we’re 
meanin’,’ Dick Reah broke in with characteristic impetuousness. 
‘ Think again, ya fool I What’ll ya do two hours after this — ay, or 
less nor that, when ya find the waves chopping ower the sides o’ 
that bit o* boat you’re in as if she were a cockle-shell ? What’ll 
you do then ? Think on it for a moment — that is, if ya’ve brain 
anuff to tak’ it in. Think of hoo ya’ll feel when ya’re goin’ doon 
to the bottom, an’ niver a soul near ya, even to see when or where 
ya go.’ 

‘ My brain can see all I wish to see, thank you,’ Hartas replied, 
speaking with a dignity, a calmness so unusual as to be a surprise 
to himself. He had not even raised his head as he spoke, and his 
tones were untainted by any harshness, any defiance. A keen 
instinct might have discerned an underlying sadness ; but no such 
instinct was there out upon the dark water. Still, Samson Verrill 
was moved to make yet another effort. 

‘Look here, you son of a squire— a fine squire’s son you are I. 
But all the same, look here — this is suicide you’re committin’.’ 

‘Or you are committing murder, which is it?’ Hartas asked 
calmly. 

‘ An’ what o’ that ?’ Jim Tyas asked mockingly. ‘It ’ud not bo 
the first murder done on the seas atween the points of Ulvstan 
Bight — no, not the first by a lot. There’s more sorts o’ murder nor 
one. An’ who’ll know o’ this, think ya ?’ 

Hartas hesitated for one impressive moment ; then he said quietly 
emphatically : 

‘ It will be known. There will be evidence you little dream of.’ 

‘ What might move him to speak so, he could hardly have told ; 
yet the quiet, oracular tone in which he spoke was not without its 
effect upon the men who heard. The night was still a dark om ; 


ii8 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


the moon was behind a bank of thick cloud ; the wind was wailing 
sadly, wildly, coldly. Sampey Verrill, with only his shore-going 
jacket on, was shivering in a way he was not much acquainted with. 
The wind he knew, and the sea he knew ; but strong and deep 
emotion was something to be dreaded. 

‘ Are ya mad T Sampey asked, coming to the stern of the boat, 
and standing a little behind Jim Tyas. ‘ Are ya clean daft ? 
YaVe only got to saay a word, an’ back ya’ll go, wi’ no more harm 
upon ya nor if ya’d been sittin’ i’ yer oan arm-chair.’ 

‘ Oh, he’ll sit on a sofy, he will, wiv a sixpenny cigar atween his 
lips,’ Dick Reah interposed by way of aside. 

And Sampey Verrill added, perhaps not without undertone of 
warning to his word : ‘ The boat’ll do better nor even a sofy. It’ll 
be more like a rockin’ chair by-and-by.’ 

But the patience of Jim Tyas, never a large store at the best, was 
being rapidly exhausted. 

‘ We’ve had anuff o’ this !’ he exclaimed, moving away with an 
impatient gesture. Then, turning again to the stern of the boat, 
taking a huge knife from his pocket, and unclasping it with ostenta- 
tion, he said, speaking loudly, emphatically : ‘ Ah’ll give ya a last 
chance, an’ then yer life ’ll be i’ yer oan hand. Will ya mak’ that 
promise, or will ya not ?’ 

The answer came clearly, deliberately : 

‘ I will not' 

No more was said just then. None dared to prevent Jim Tyas 
from cutting the rope that held the smaller boat in tow ; strand by 
strand, and with scientific manipulation, he did it. . . . There was 
only a last fibre.’ 

‘ Speak, ya fool I’ 

But no one spoke. 

Hartas Theyn felt the moment when the last strand was severed, 
the boat set afcft ; he felt it through his very soul as with a shock, 
yet comparatively but a slight shock. It was much as if some one 
had opened a vein in his body, from out of which his life would 
slowly but surely flow. 

For perhaps one minute the two boats had drifted apart ; yet the 
space between was a wide one. The sky seemed darker and wilder ; 
the waters blacker and more turbulent. Then once more a voice 
came from out the distant gloom : 

* Will ya saay that word, ya born idiot?’ 

It was Samson VerriH’s voice, and there was an undertone of 
strong entreaty in it ; but no response was made. 

For a long while they listened, but there came never any 
e spouse. 


THE SHADOW OF DEATH 


119 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

‘hast thou then wrapped us in thy shadow, death?* 

And yet that hollow moaning will not go, 

Nor the old fears that with the sea abide.* 

William M. W. Call. 

As some of the older people had expected, that night was one of 
the wildest nights ever known on the north-east coast of England. 

The story of it — or rather a mere outline of the story — may be 
read in the local chronicles of that day. It is told in the usual 
brief, journalistic fashion how the sloop Joanna, of Sunderland, 
came ashore at Flamboro* ; how her crew were drowned, all but 
the little cabin-boy, who was washed ashore, stunned and senseless, 
and awoke to learn that his father had gone down in that same 
sqnall only a few miles farther to the south. 

The next wreck to come ashore was the schooner Vihing. Though 
the vessel was registered as sailing from Hild’s Haven, the crew 
were all of them Ulvstan men. There were six of them— a father, 
his brother, his three sons, and a cousin. They had been caught 
out at sea suddenly during that wild night, and almost immediately 
the little vessel had sprung a leak. It had probably seemed to the 
crew, in the first moments of their danger, that it was a matter of 
congratulation that distress had come upon them so near to their 
own home. They made at once for the Bight of Ulvstan ; but in 
those days the men of the Bight had no help to offer ; no lifeboat 
was stationed there, no rocket-apparatus ; they could only go up to 
the cliff-top with the wives and children, the parents and sisters of 
the men in danger, and watch there. They presently saw that the 
crew had ‘taken up aloft.* But the sea was breaking over the 
rigging. One tremendous wave was seen to wash several of them 
off into the boiling surf ; this was about daybreak, and at last the 
ship went down. Before she quite sank, the top-gallant-mast was 
seen to be out of the water, with men clinging to it, in sight of their 
agonized and powerless friends. But the storm went on raging ; 
and at last, one by one, the poor fellows were seen to drop off, to 
battle with the furiously-dashing sea below for a moment or two, 
and then to go under. 

If you should ask for any of the Burrells’ of Ulvstan Bight now, 
you would receive for answer, ‘ The sea gat him /’ 

An hour or two later, when the crimson of the rising sun had 
ceased to flush the tossing surf with fiery colour, another vessel came 
in sight, remained visible for a few minutes, and then suddenly 
disappeared with all hands on board. Later the hull of this 
brigantine washed up, and her name-board proved her to have been 
the Marie Sieden of Rotterdam. 

The captain, a young man of not more than five-and-twenty, was 
found lashed to the helm, his right arm broken, a pitiless bruise on 
his left temple. There w^s still a smile on the dead placid face, 


120 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


A lovely miniature on ivory, a portrait of a young girl, golden- 
haired (a rich red gold it was), blue-eyed, crimson-lipped, was near 
the heart of the drowned captain of the Marie Sieden. Two days 
later strangers laid him to rest in the quiet churchyard at Market 
Yarburgh ; and he was not unwept. 

Naturally enough these days of storm and stress were days of 
great excitement in XJlvstan Bight. When the tide was out the 
fisher-folk gathered about the sands and the foot of the Forecliff ; 
when it was high and the storm was at its worst, they went up to 
the quay and to the ledges of shaly rock that ran to the southward 
of the Bight. This they did especially when any sail was in sight, 
watching the labouring of the distant vessel as it passed from point 
to point, wondering what its fate might be. But very few ships 
passed by, and these were screw-steamers for the most part, more 
equal to the fight with wind and wave than the wooden-built, 
canvas-sped vessels that awoke so much more interest. It was the 
oak or teak built brig, the white sail, that aroused the fears of 
every heart watching in or near the Bight of Ulvstan. 

All day the excitement was kept up in an intermittent way, and 
qi nightfall it increased. There were two or three vessels in sight ; 
one seemed as if it might hold on its way with some chance of 
safety ; the second, a brigantine, appeared to be driving more or 
less at the mercy of the waves ; a third, the Lady Godiva of 
Danesborough, a schooner with only four men on board, was 
evidently trying to make for the beach when the night began to 
fall, and the chance for her crew, with that awful sea whitening all 
the bay, seemed very small indeed — they must surely know how 
small, those poor storm-driven souls whose own home was not so 
very far away. Yes ; they would know all the coast, its dangers, 
its advantages, its possibilities. Yet they were trying to run 
aground in Ulvstan Bight, that was evident. 

It seemed as if not only the population of Ulvstan was there to 
watch the on-coming of the little schooner, but people from aU the 
neighbourhood round about. Barbara Burdas, with two of the 
three little lads beside her, was out upon the Forecliff. Old 
Ephraim was down below answering Mrs. Kerne’s brusque questions 
with a quite equal brusqueness, yet he was not at all averse from re- 
ceiving a shilling for his apparently grudgingly-given information. 
Jim Tyas, with Dick ^leah, Samson Verrill, and a dozen others, 
were by the edge of the quay, waiting in readiness to do aught that 
might be done, waiting patiently, watching closely, almost silently. 
If they grieved that they could do so little, their grief was not 
audible. 

More than one there present noticed how downcast some few of 
these fishermen seemed that day ; but none dreamed that they had 
other cause for being dispirited than the very natural sympathy 
they must be feeling for those in danger. Their close watching 
was approved, their patient waiting commended. Though no boat 
might be launched in such a sea, yet all else that might be done in 


THE SHADOW OF DEATH, 


121 


readiness to help was done, and with an almost passionate eagerness. 
And no one was handier in coiling ropes than Samson Verrill ; no 
one took more trouble to see that the tar-barrels were rightly pre- 
pared than Dick Keah. Jim Tyas was more sullen, more restless ; 
and shook off poor Nan when she went down to the quay with some 
hot coffee in a can for him, with a harshness of manner he was never 
to repent of. 

Nan’s eyes filled with tears as she turned away ; and others saw 
and were sorry, even some of the roughest of them felt pain. They 
knew that Nan was not well just now, and that she had fought her 
way down to the quay at one of the wildest moments of the gale, 
with a furious rain beating upon her ; all were things to be re- 
membered afterward — too late. 

Yet it was Jim Tyas who improvised the life-line that was to be 
flung on board the schooner if she came near enough to be helped 
so ; he it was who kept to the quay and to the Forecliff, while 
others went home to snatch a hasty meal. 

‘ He’s noan such a bad ^un after all, isn’t Jim I’ said some of the 
old fishermen, watching his alertness with a certain pride as in 
some way belonging to themselves. He was not much liked, he had 
often made himself to be dreaded, though his temper was rather of 
the bitter than of the passionate type. Yet he could be violent 
enough on occasion. He was best known for his daring, his wild 
and reckless daring ; courage, one called it ; fool-hardiness, another ; 
yet none had ever doubted his desperate bravery. More than one 
man living in the Bight knew well that he owed his life to the 
eager temerity of Jim Tyas. 

They were watching there in the deepening twilight. Groups of 
sailors and fisher-folk went down on the as yet uncovered beach ; 
the women and children were for the most part on the quay. There 
was a carriage or two at the bottom of the hilly road that Jed down 
into the Bight from Yarva, and from the moorland townlet of 
Kildwick. It seemed as if few could rest in their own warm and 
comfortable homes on such a night as this. 

All day Damian Aldenmede had been there. At first he had 
tried to sketch, to put on canvas the fierce, wild rolling and curving 
of the waves — waves more dread, more magnificent than any he had 
ever seen ; but he had soon to desist. It was like trying to make 
artistic capital of some influence that was appalling, impressing his 
inmost nature. In a word, he was too greatly overcome by the 
force of the spirit of the storm to make use of his talent. He had 
known nothing like this before. 

He could not paint or sketch ; he could hardly think to any 
definite end. What responsive man or woman can ever use the 
power of thought to any intelligible purpose during a hurricane that 
is sweeping both land and sea ? The least sensitive person must 
surely be unstrung. The sound alone — the loud, continuous, nerve- 
wearing, brain-racking sound must of itself be sufficient to untune 
every string of the chords of human life. And then there is always 


t23 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


some dread present, either in the background, or in the forefront 
of sensation. And it is a strange, peculiar, magnetic kind of dread, 
for some of us much akin to that which strains the soul when the 
earth is all a-tremble beneath one’s feet. ... It is only when the 
storm has ceased, only when the wind lies dead upon land and sea, 
only when the ocean is stilled to an almost appalling stillness, that 
one can at all measure the depth of prostration one has reached. If 
the tension be taken off suddenly the reaction is almost in- 
describable. 

Damian Aldenmede was all unaccustomed to the strain caused by 
a storm at the sea’s marge. He could not realize it, or understand 
. it altogether, and consequently he gave to other perturbing causes 
more than their due share in his perturbation. 

Twice or thrice during that day he had seen Canon Godfrey in 
the Bight ; once he had met him coming out from the cottage 
where the poor little shipwrecked lad was lying, conscious now of 
the fact that he had been left fatherless, and, since his captain was 
gone and his shipmates, almost friendless. The Canon grasped the 
artist’s hand warmly, hurriedly. ‘We must look to the little 
stranger,' he said, passing on to the next cottage, where an old 
woman, mother of one of the drowned Burrell family, was sitting 
alone, stunned, tearless, resentful, waiting for some one to listen to 
her raving against the ways of God and man. No such task bad 
ever had to be met by Hugh Godfrey as that which fell to him 
under the low red roof of the Burrells. 

The long, gray, stormy twilight, how it seemed to linger that 
evening ! The groups of anxious people gathered and grew ; the 
great waves rose, and tossed, and fell in long, whitening lines upon 
the beach. The little schooner was still struggling bravely, but ah! 
how slowly, toward the land where alone was safety. 

And now once again the Canon and Damian Aldenmede met ; it 
was at the point where the road that crossed the Forecliff joined 
the path that led to the new promenade. There was a tiny wooden 
bridge across the beck that ran down from the moors above to the 
sea. Close at hand a coastguardsman’s cottage stood behind trim 
garden palings. - Some fisher-folk were grouped about the little 
gate, the gray road that led up the hill behind was lined on either 
hand by people seeking the slight shelter afforded by the rising 
ground. Everywhere the same subdued excitement was noticeable. 

‘ What do you think ?’ the artist was asking. ‘ What do you 
think of the chances of the schooner ? Is there any hope for . . 

Mr. Aldenmede’s question was never finished. There was a 
sudden commotion among the little crowd by the coastguardsman’s 
gate ; a stepping aside as if to make way ; a murmur of conster- 
nation ; a white figure flying down the dark road ! The Canon 
turned in instant anxiety, and the artist’s sympathy was with him. 
Then, all at once, as if Thorhilda had known where her uncle must 
be, she flew to him, clinging to his arm with pathetic fervour of 
tenderness, 


NAN TYAS AND HER TROUBLES. 


123 


‘ Is it you ? Is it Uncle Hugh T she cried, gasping between each 
word, being so very breathless. ‘ Is Hartas with you ? . . Is he ? 

. . . Surely he is ?’ 

She could say no more just then, and the Rector, seeing how it 
was with her, placed her arm within his own, and drew her away 
from the gaping little crowd that had gathered round. 

‘ Come with me,’ he said gently, ‘ Come into Mackenzie’s 
cottage. . • • Aldenmede, will you see if Mrs. Mackenzie has come 
home T 

CHAPTER XXX. 

NAN TYAS AND HER TROUBLES. 

* Let not the waters close above my head, 

Uphold me that I sink not in this mire : 

For flesh and blood are frail and sore afraid ; 

And young I am, unsatisfied and young, 

With memories, hopes, with cravings all unfed, 

My song half sung, its sweetest notes unsung, 

All plans cut short, all possibilities.’ 

Christina Eossetti. 

Thus invited, the artist was well content to accompany them, to 
see Miss Theyn seated by the cottage fire, trying to collect herself, 
to overcome her emotion ; but it was evident that these things 
were difficult to her. 

‘ Have you not seen Hartas V she asked, still speaking with 
effort. ‘ He is missing / He has not been at home all day, all 
night I Some time yesterday he left the Grange, and they have 
not seen him since I . . . Rhoda is at the Rectory, with Aunt 
Milicent. . . . She has walked all the way from the Grange 
alone and in this storm to see if we could tell her anything 
about him. . . . Poor Rhoda, she cares so much more about 
him than I ever dreamed she did. . . , She guessed when I was 
there yesterday that I had something particular to say to him. 
As I told you, he was out; but I ought to have gone before. 
... I ought to have done something. I was asTcecl to warn him / . , . 
And I did not. . . . How shall I bear it ? — how shall I hear f . , 
What can they have done, those enemies of his ?’ 

‘ You know nothing more than you told me of before ?’ the 
Canon asked. ‘ You told me that Xan Tyas had intimated that 
some harm was intended him ; you know no more ?’ 

‘ I know nothing but that. Surely it is enough. And I did not 
forget — not for a second. But I wanted to see Hartas alone^ to 
talk to him a little, that is, to appeal to him. . , . You have not 
seen him since ’ 

‘ Not since that moment I told you something of — the moment 
when wa parted on the sands, and he gave me such hope of his 
future.’ 

It was strange how the Canon’s heart sank, remembering that 
hour. Of this he did not speak, but for a moment he left the 


124 


IN EXCHANGE FOE A SOUL. 


room. Thorhilda had seen that the blue, kindly eyes were bright 
with unshed tears. 

She made a momentary effort. ‘ You have not seen my brother, 
Mr. Aldenmede, I need hardly ask T she said. 

Then, worn out by physical fatigue, by mental strain, she closed 
her eyes and sank back in her chair ; and he saw by the dread pallor 
on her face that she was unconscious. The sight was strangely 
overwhelming, almost paralyzing. 

‘My child! my child! he exclaimed, in a subdued, agonizing 
tone, as he took her cold hands in his and chafed them. It was 
only a moment or two before consciousness began to return. Her 
colour came back with a sudden betraying flush. Had she heard ? 
And what exactly had he said ? He hardly knew. Canon Godfrey 
was re-entering the little room ; Mrs. Mackenzie was coming with 
a cup of tea ; Miss Theyn, recovering herself, was asking : 

‘ What can we do ? . . . Uncle Hugli, you will do something f for 
my sake you will do something. I feel as if it were all on my 
head ; on my own head. Kemember that. I ought to have made 
more effort, but I did not dream of anything happening yet ; how 
should I ? And now it may be too late — it may be 1 , . . What can 
we do T 

‘ There are some things to be done at once,’ the Canon replied, 
with peremptoriness. ‘ You must, in the first place, take this tea. 
. . . You have acted with sufficient unwisdom for one day, Thorda 
dear. The carriage could have been brought round in ten minutes, 
and in the end you would have been here much sooner. Now you 
must please obey me. Mr. Aldenmede will get a cab ; he will take 
you home in it, and then he will come back, and help me to do all 
that may be done. . . .You see I am counting upon you in a very 
cavalier fashion,* he added, turning to Aldenmede. ‘ But this is no 
time for deliberate courtesies. ... I need not ask if you will do all 
you can ?’ 

The artist was not one to deal in words at such a moment. 

‘ I wiU do all I may do, and gladly,’ he replied. But the re- 
strained, eager fervidness of his tone said more than many eloquent 
phrases. 

It was about this time that somehow, no one ever knew exactly 
how, the news was flashed about Ulvstan Bight that Hartas Theyn 
was missing ; that he had been missing since the previous day. . . . 
This was Miss Theyn’s motive for flying all the way from Yarburgh 
Bectory on a stormy evening with only a white shawl for protec- 
tion. The sensation seemed to mingle itself with that that was 
gathering about the little schooner that was struggling to reach the 
Bight with her crew of four exhausted men — each man now lashed 
to the rigging. Once, about an hour earlier, a flash had been seen ; 
the dull boom of a signal gun had struck upon the ears of the 
waiting, helpless, saddened crowd. That was the last effort, the 
last appeal. And no answer could be made — none. There was no 
lifeboat in that little bay. 


NAN TYAS AND HER TROUBLES. 125 

Had a boat been there, there were fifty men from whom a crew 
of twelve might have been chosen. 

Surely all the people of the neighbourhood must now have been 
there by the sea’s wild margin ! Gray-headed men and women, 
who had lived by the sea, and toiled by it, and suffered by it ; little 
children, whose brief life was all bound up with the sea-life of the 
place ; young men, strong, anxious, eager to fight for the lives of 
these men, their fellows, bound helplessly there in the rigging of 
the drifting ship, yet having no means of fighting ; young maidens 
excited by sympathy, prayerful, tearful, calm, hysterical — all these 
and others were there ; emotion mingling with emotion ; thoughts, 
hopes, regrets, repentance finding expression in that unwonted 
moment that might have remained unexpressed for ever in the 
routine of daily existence. 

The twilight yet lingered ; the tide was not yet at its highest. 
The little vessel, with her black hull, could be seen quite distinctly 
as she tossed there in the white surf. She yet held together, and 
she was beating in ; these were the sole grounds for hoping. 

Intense as were the hopes, the fears, that held that multitude of 
people in a common thrall, the news that the Rector’s niece bad 
brought to the Bight was by no means ignored. All at once the 
feeling that some dark deed had been perpetrated seemed to seize 
the people. No one knew how this idea had arisen, yet it was 
there ; and almost immediately spoken of more or less openly. 

‘ They've done it — them Andoes,’ old Dan Furniss said at once. 

‘ Ne’er a worse woman lived nor old Suze, an’ they’re all of a breed, 
’cept David ; an’ he’s like anuff a changlin’, whoa knows ? Wi’ 
such a family as yon — whoa knows ? But that’s neither here nor 
there I What ha’ they done wi’ the young Squire ? He's noan sa 
much, or he’d never ha’ set his heart on a flither-picker ! But for 
all that they’re scarce within the law o’ the land i’ murderin’ him I 
. . , An’ whoa knows ?’ 

Such were the words, the hints, the suggestions, that flew round 
the Bight on that wild autumn evening. 

Did they hear, those three men who had rowed out to sea the 
night before, towing a tiny boat which they had cut adrift miles 
from the land ? 

Did they need to hear an}^ spoken word ? Was not the voice of 
the stormy sea as it rolled and broke and thundered at the foot of 
the cliffs — was not this sufihciently informing ? 

Who can say what it was that was lending such desperation to 
their effort to save life — the lives of those comparative strangers 
that fate was driving into their hands ? 

As everyone saw, the men of Ulvstan were doing their utmost. 
A tar-barrel had been lighted on the beach, indicating the spot 
toward which the schooner’s crew might aim with some hope of 
deliverance — supposing any power of aiming anywhere were left to 
them. Very soon after this it was perceived that they had 
abandoned themselves to the mercy of wind and wave. 


126 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


The gun had been fired at sea ; the burning tar-barrel had 
answered on the shore ; and now out upon the Balderstone — a 
long, dark tongue of low-lying rock that stretched across the bay at 
a rigl^ angle from the cliff, some fifty men and lads of the place 
were assembled, a few with ropes, a few with flares of blazing pitch 
or tar. They were all anxious, all ready, a few pressed forward in 
a very passion of desperate eagerness. 

It was just then that Nan Tyas and Bab Burdas met unex- 
pectedly on a shelving part of the Forecliff. Nan was sobbing, 
shivering, trying to cover herself with a little red woollen hand- 
kerchief that was about her neck. Bab saw and understood, and 
was all compassion in a moment. 

* Ya daft lass !’ she exclaimed, unfastening her own big warm 
Scotch plaid, and pinning it in motherly fashion about the young 
fishwife’s shoulders. ‘ Ya daft body ! What are ya doin’ here ? 
You’ve no right to be out o’ doors at all ! One’ll hear tell o’ ya 
bein’ i’ bed the next thing !’ 

Nan’s first answer was a deeper sob ; then at last words came. 

‘ Eh, but you’re a good friend, Bab, an’ kind ! As for stayin’ 
indoors, it’s noan sa easy at a time like this !’ 

‘ You’re gettin’ nervous. Nan, an’ no wonder I What’s your 
mother about ’at she’s not lookin’ after ya ?’ 

‘ My mother !’Nan exclaimed, checking her tears for the moment! 
and lifting her face with a look of scorn upon it. ‘ My mother ; 
. , . Eh, well, she is my mother, so mebbe I’d better say no more ; 
but it’s little ya know o’ her if ya think she’d put herself oot o’ 
the way for me. ... If I thought I’d ever live to be as hard to a 
bairn o’ mine. I’d wish to die to-night, afore to-morrow. , , . But 
what am I sayin’ ? She is my mother 1’ 

‘ Don’t say no more of her. Nan — not just now,’ Bab urged gently 
and kindly. ‘You’re noan dependent on her now. . . . Surely 
Jim’s kind anuff ?’ 

Bab had no idea of being inquisitive. She was only wondering 
how far she need go in case of Nan being in any trouble or 
danger. 

For awhile Nan did not reply. Then she said sadly and slowly ; 

‘ Off an’ on he’s kind ; there’s worse nor he is.’ 

It was evident that she wished to say no more ; and Bab under- 
stood and was silent in her compassion, but she drew a little nearer 
to Nan, and watched her in the motherly protecting way that was 
an instinct always, when anyone needed her care. Nan was well 
able to appreciate kindness. 

•And still the storm seemed to be increasing. The few stars that 
had appeared in the sky were obscured, the heavens became one 
black mass of cloud, and suddenly from out the mass there came a 
vivid, blinding flash of lightning, disclosing the scene in the Bight 
with painful clearness. The schooner was still there, her dark hull 
rocking slowly in the white waves, her masts still standing, and 
apparently two at least of the crew had descended from the rigging. 


‘ WHEN THE CRY WAS MADE' 


127 


The crowd of men were still clustering upon the tongue of rock ; 
some of them seemed quite neaf* the ship. In point of fact, they 
were holding a difficult conversation with the master and mate of 
the Lady Godiva, The lightning flash silenced the speakers for 
the moment. 

Then came the thunder, loud, dread, long-continued, seeming as 
if it silenced all things. 

‘ You mun go home, Nan 1’ Bab urged again, her sympathy roused 
to the uttermost by the uncontrollable tremor of the girl at her 
side. ‘ You’re none well I You mun go home.^ 

‘ Let ma wait a bit longer — just a bit,’ Nan begged with a new 
quietness, a new gentleness. ‘ I’d like to see what comes o’ yon 
schooner,’ 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

‘at midnight, when the cry was made.* 

‘ “ Love me in sinners and in saints, 

In each who needs or faints,’— 

Lord, I will love Thee as I can 
In every brother man. 

* « All sore, all crippled, all who ache, 

Tend all for My dear sake, ’ — 

All for Thy sake. Lord : I will see 
In every sufferer Thee. ” 

Christina Eossetti, 

It was just at that moment that old Ephraim Burdas came up to 
the point of the Forecliff where Barbara and Nan were standing. 
Bab saw at once that he was somewhat excited, and longing to 
unburden himself of the cause of his excitement. 

‘ What’s i’ the wind noo, granfather ?’ she asked. ‘ What have 
ya heerd that’s new ? Nought ’at’s good such a day as this, I’m 
fearin’.’ / 

‘ Good or bad — whoa can saay ?’ exclaimed the old man. ‘ Think 
ov a laady like yon, dressed all i’ white, fra the crown of her head 
te the sole of her foot, fly in’ doon fra Yarburgh Rectory, all alean, 
an’ wi’ niver a hat nor a bonnet on her head ! . Think on it ! An’ 
a storm like this ragin’ — wind an’ raain,’ an’ thunder an’ leetnin’, an’ 
slush an’ niud — think on it ! An’ what’s she done it for ? All 
acause yon scapegrace brother of hers is missin’. Missin’ ? Nea 
doobt on it ; an’ missin’ he’ll be ! Missin’ ? Some o’ them Andoes 
could tell what sort o’ missing it means. They’re bad anuff for 
owght — all but Dave ; an’ as for Jim Tyas. . . .’ 

‘ Gran'father /’ Bab exclaimed warmly, feeling the heavy weight 
of poor Nan, as the young fishwife reeled and fell against her. For 
all Bab's strength it was as much as she could do to sustain the 
half-conscious form. She had no time or opportunity to realize 
the stun and hurt that the old man’s words had been to her own 


138 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


brain. But almost immediately Nan made a great effoi*t — there 
was need for it— and recovered herself sufi&ciently to say : 

‘ Keep a quiet tongue i^ yer head, Barbie. Til tell ya what Ah 
know ; it isn’t much, but I’ll tell ya by-an’-by.’ 

That was all Nan could say just then ; and she spoke the truth 
in saying that she did not know much. 

One thing everybody knew. Dandy Will’s little boat had been 
missed at daybreak ; but that such a tiny craft should have broken 
from its moorings and drifted out to sea during such a night as 
that just passed was far too commonplace a matter to attract much 
remark. Why had not the owner taken the trouble to do what 
the owners of other boats had done — draw his little possession up 
to the side of the Forecliff, and turn her upside down among the 
grass and the gray-green bents ? Who could pity him ? 

Perhaps it was fortunate for Bab that she had Nan to think of 
and care for in this first moment. Still she began to feel as if her 
own strength were being taken from her ; as if she must be grow- 
ing cold and white and ill. Miss Theyn was there in the Bight ? 
Her brother Hartas vras missing ? People were suspecting foul 
play ? Surely her little world was crumbling beneath her feet ? 
Yes, certainly it was well that Bab had to give the best energy she 
had left to the suffering’ girl by her side. 

‘ You’ll go home now, Nan T she said entreatingly. But Nan 
was not yet to be persuaded. 

‘ Hoo ya talk I’ she replied, with the mingled tremor of cold and 
fear and pain in her voice. ‘ Go home^ an’ Mm doon there, bent o’ 
risking’ his life as he were never bent afore ! Hs heen on him all 
day^ that desperateness / , . . Eh me ! it’s been the strangest day o’ 
my life — the strangest of alL • . . God send Ah may never know 
such another !’ 

Sobs prevented Nan’s utterance of any further foreboding. By 
this time the lightning was flashing across the bay with some 
frequency, the thunder rolling and crashing with appalling nearness ; 
the white waves were still flying and tossing down below. 

Every now and then the schooner could be seen ; the long dark 
Balderstone, with a few men yet remaining upon it, lingering there 
because of their humane errand. There were not more than five or 
six of them now ; the rest had fled with the rising of the tide, 
warning the others that the deep gutter that surrounded the rock 
was already filled with water. Jim Tyas and Samson Verrill were 
among those who remained, beseeching the crew of the Lady 
Godiva to leave the vessel while yet there was time. 

Again Jim Tyas was the spokesman. He knew the captain 
of the little ship, knew that he was part owner as well as captain, 
and he knew also that, for economy’s sake, she had not been 
insured. If she were lost that night, left to the mercy of the wild 
waters of Ulvstan Bight, all was lost so far as Jonas Lee was 
concerned. He would be a penniless man. His crew knew this, 
and held by their captain bravely. 


‘ tVHEN TUB CRY WAS MADE.* 129 

‘ There’s no more nor five minutes noo !’ Jim Tyas urged, 
apparently moved by such urgent compassion as had never moved 
him before, ‘ Give us a rope I We’ll land the lot on ya i’ less time 
nor it’s ta’en us to talk of it.’ 

The captain shook his head ; being an old man his voice could 
hardly be heard above the roar of that wild storm ; and the rest of 
the crew made no reply. They were free to do as they would, and 
their freedom might have meant their death-warrant .had fate 
so willed it. 

A few more words passed between the men on the shuddering 
vessel and those who would save them even from their own self- 
sacrifice. Then all at once a cry was heard, the cry of men 
suddenly, wildly despairing. One of the five fisherman who had 
stayed on the Balderstone discovered all at once that their sole 
chance of escape was cut off. They were surrounded by the rising 
tide. A rush was made ; the men on the deck of the schooner, 
exhausted as they were, fired another flare, as if to help the fisher- 
men who were making that desperate rush through the tossing, 
hilrling waves. 

‘ Follow me I’ Jim Tyas shouted, as he dashed foremost into the 
surf at the one point whence escape might be possible. And the^ 
men followed him. Again, in the middle of the narrow channel, 
they heard his voice. It sounded strange and faint and heavy, yet 
the word was encouraging. ‘ Follow me !’ 

And they did follow him, through the fierce, fatal, narrow sea, 
but not to his doom. Whether he had struck his head upon some 
point of rock, or whether some piece of floating wreck had struck 
him, none know, none ever might know. 

When Jim Tyas washed up, as he did .within half an hour of his 
leaving the Baldersfone, he was bruised and hurt, and cold and dead. 

They dared not tell Nan the truth — no one ever did tell her. 
She saw it in the look of the men who had escaped so hardly from 
the rocky peninsula, and who came up to the Forecliff with torn 
and bleeding hands, with white and ghastly faces, with dripping 
hair and clothing, and the smell of the salt seaweed about them 
everywhere. 

Nan met them, looked upon them — there were four where five 
had been. All her questioning was in that one look. She turned 
away silently, quite quietly. Only Barbara Burdas turned with her. 

‘ Come wi’ me. Nan, come home wi’ me. You’ll be quieter there 
nor anywhere else. . . . An’ there’s noan i’ the world ’ll do better 
by ya. Say you’ll come I’ 

Nan made no reply, but she* permitted herself to be led away, 
Bab’s arm round her, Bab’s soothing word in her ear. 

All that night Bab had no thought of herself, of her own 
strange grief. How should she ? Dr. Douglas came and went ; 
old Hagar Furniss came and stayed. Suzie Andoe refused to 
come, and Nan never asked for her. She asked for nothing, for no 
one. She made no moan. 


9 


130 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


It was some time about midnight when her baby was bom — 
a f ne, fair woman-child as any mother need wish to look upon. 

But it was eTident that poor Nan’s heart sank still lower, hearing 
what was said. 

‘ Don t say it's a girl. Barbie, doni. I'd liefer you’d say it were 
dead-cora nor tell me it’s a girl ! . . . Poor folk should nirer ha’ 
Eowt but lads. . . . They can fight their own waay, lads can! 
TheyVe less to suffer. . . . Nobody niyer dreams o* what women 
has to go through, when they're poor ; oh, God, no ! . . . Does God 
Hisseif know o’ what woman bears — uin’ nobody to ’give em a 
thought : nobody to make nought no easier for ’em ? . . . Does 
He imow ? ... If He does, why doesn't He put it into the hearts 
o’ rich folk to think, to help a bit ? . . . They could do such a lot ! 
Oh. do they iver think o' what they could do ? . . . Why doesn’t 
He make ’em think? . . . Why a easier bed, a softer pilla’, a 
better blauket, a few better bits of under-things for one's sel’ 
an' for the boim, they’d all make a difference, a strange difference. 
. . . Not at I’ve au^ht to complain on noo, no ; but that’s your 
doin'. Barbie. . . . Gie me a kiss ! . • Yon 11 be as good to 
the iiiiie nn as ya’ve been to me ?’ 

‘ Nannie, be still !' Barbara sobbed, kissing the dying woman as 
she sp :ke. But Bab did not dream that death was near. She sat 
on the edge of her own little bed where Nan lay ; all was quiet, and 
clean, and warm. The doctor had gone, saying that he would 
return presently ; and Hagar F umiss sh<x>k her old head wisely 
when she heard this, saying nothing of her fear to Bab. It was 
p^ror Nan herself who first awoke the dread that was slumbering in 
Barbara’s brain. 

‘ Gie me a word,’ Nan whispered after a brief silence. ‘ I'll 
sleep quieter under the sod if ya’U say one word. YouB be a 
mother to the little nn V 

‘ Ale be a mother to her !’ Bab said, restraining herself. ‘ But 
where’s the good o* talking to-night, when you’re sa down? 
Yodl be a mother to her yersel’.’ 

* Then yall noan promise, Barbara ?’ 

‘ Promise ! What need o’ promise, Nan ? D'ya think ’at I’d 
ever see the bairn want so long as I’d bite or sup for mysel' 
Then she put out her hand, and took Nan’s chill fingers in her own. 
‘ Be at resV said. ‘ If the little un ever wants any mother but 
you, m be proud to take your place. . . . Eh, me ! Anybody 'ud 
be proud of a bairn like this. Why there’s princesses 'ud give a 
thousand pound to hev one like it ! ... Be at rest about her, Nan,’ 

The poor girl smiled faintly, opened her eyes, in which there was 
a new. s* ft. strange light, and clasped Barbara’s hand more strongly 
and warmly in her own, 

* li « g >jd o' ya, Barbara, it is good ! But you were alius like 
that, ailus so different fra me. . . . Ah’ve never been good mysel’, 
tho^igh Dive’s said so much, an’ tried so bard. . . . But Ah wasn’t 
like him— no, never. . . • Will Ah be forgiven, d’ya think y 


‘ IVH£N THE CRY WAS MADE: 


131 


‘ The Bible says so, if yaVe sorry.’ 

‘ Ah’m sorry enough noo. . . . AhVe often been sorry when Ah 
couldn’t say so. . . . An’ Ah doant know how to saay noa prayers 
nor nothing. . . . Could you saay one — a prayer, Barbie ? Ah’d 
like ya to, if ya can. . . . But afore ya do, will ye saay again ’at ya 
won’t'forsake the little lass ? ... If ever they take her fra ya, her 
father’s folk, ya won’t forget her?’ 

‘ Me forget / , , . What’s the girl thinking on ? . . . Hevn’t Ah 
said ’at ya were to set yer mind at rest V 

Barbara was still sitting on the edge of the bed ; the chill hand 
of the dying mother was still clasped in her own strong and warm 
one. But even yet Barbara did not dream that the end was near. 
Strange to say she had never witnessed the oncoming of the last 
enemy save in that hour when her father and mother had struggled 
with him in the deep waters of Ulvstan Bight. Now all was 
different. 

Bab thought awhile, praying silently with closed eyes, then a few 
tremulous and reverent words came audibly. Nan was comforted. 

Presently she spoke again ; 

‘ I’m still thinkin’ o’ the little lass,’ she said. ‘ It’s a strange 
thought mebbe, but I would like ta call her after yon lady — her ya 
think so much on ! . . . Would she take it badly, d’ya think ?’ 

‘ Take it badly 1 None her ! , , She’ll be ever sa proud to know 
ya wish it.’ 

‘ Then will ya tell her ?’ 

‘ Ay, or you’ll tell her yourself.’ 

‘No; Ah 11 noan do that, not now. . . Then there came a 
pause. Old Hagar was dozing by the crackling fire, the clock 
ticked loudly. Presently Nan spoke again : 

‘ Barbie ! . . . Ah’ll noan live till the mornin’,’ she said slowly 
and feebly. ‘ Ah’m dying noo. . . Ah know Ah’m dying ! Give 
me another kiss. . . . An’ be good to the little lass. . . . An’, 
Barbie, say that prayer again. . . . Ah’d like ya te be sayin’ that 
just when Ah go. Ah’d like ya te be speakin’ a word for me then I 
’T would gowi’ me like. . . . Ah’d not seem to be sa lone — not . . . . 
not sa despert lone !’ 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

CONJECTURE VAGUE. 

‘ Strew on her roses, roses, 

And never a spray of yew I 
In quiet she reposes ; 

Ah, would that I did too !’ 

Matthew Arnold. 

It is strange, recalling the story of the sea, to remember how often 
desperate effort has been made, lifeboats launched, rockets fired, 
men’s lives sacrificed, in the desire to aid some ship’s crew, while 
afterward that crew have been able calmly to leave their stranded 

• Q— 2 


132 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


vesfel, to walk asbore without danger or difficulty. It is strange, 
and it is sad ; yet no human forethought may avert such sad- 
seeming incidents. 

It happened thus, precisely thus, to the crew of the Lady Godiva. 
They clung to their vessel, and about three o’clock on the following 
morning they descended from the side to the beach as if no very 
extraordinary escape had been theirs. It even seemed to some 
matter for congratulation that only one life was lost in connection 
with the wreck of the schooner, and that the life of a man not too 
highly respected or too greatly beloved. 

Yet the death of Jim Tyas made sensation enough on the Fore- 
cliff, and far beyond ; and that the poor girl-wife should have laid 
down her life with his did not make the sensation less. The child, 
left so solemnly to Bab Burdas, would have been a cause of 
curiosity had Bab permitted ; but she did not, and, as old Mrs. 
Andoe said, in an aggrieved tone — ‘Nobody daures say “wrong 
does she do”l’ 

As a matter of course, Bab had admitted old Suzie to see her little 
grandchild, and the child’s dead mother. Suzie had wept, knelt, 
prayed, wept again, and thanked Bab almost abjectly for her 
goodness. 

Barbara stood strong, and silent, and pale, dreading the next 
event ; but there was not much need for dread. 

‘ You must say once for all what you meisu to do, Susan,’ Bab 
began, speaking even more gravely and weightily than was her wont. 

‘ I’ve told you what she said, her that’s lying there on my own 
pillow. I’ve repeated what she said almost with her last breath, an’ 
I’ve told you my own wish an’ all. But for all tb,at, you’re the 
bairn’s grandmother, an’ the mother o’ her ’at’s lyin’ there. So 
speak, but let it be once for all. D’ya want to take the child, to 
bring it up as you’ve brought up most o’ yer own — i’ rags, i’ misery, 
i’ dirt, i’ hunger, i’ ignorance, i’ wickedness ? I’m noan sparin’ you, 
as mebbe I ought to ha’ done, seein’ as yer hair’s gray, an’ yer head 
tremblin’. But I’ve no patience with you — I never had. . . . Still, 
if yer bent on takin’ the bairn fra me, take it ! I’ll none forget it, 
for her sake. But if you’ve ony regard for her last word, you’ll 
leave it here, where it lies.’ 

Another gush of ready tears was the first answer, and Bab, not 
being trained to refinement of humanity, turned away impatiently. 
Then all at once her conscience troubled her. She would have 
spoken again, and more kindly, but Susan prevented her. 

‘ Dea as ya will, Bab ; dea as ya will ! What could Ah mak’ of 
a little wrecklin’ like yon at this tahme o’ daay ? . . . Naay, Ah 
can noan be bothered wi’ it. . . . Ah’d get noa sleep of a night, 
nowther me nor Pete. We’re ower oad te take a new-born bairn I 
Dea as ya will, Bab. Ah’ll niver goa agaain ya !’ 

‘ You promise ? . . . You won’t take the child away fra me when 
I’ve got her beyond bein’ a burden ?’ 

‘ Noa, Ah’d noan do that, Bab. , , , You’re hard, so thej^ all 


X33 


CONJECTURE VAGUE. 

say ; you’re hard when*ya do tak’ agaain onybody. . , . But you’re 
good to children, they alloo that. It’s such as Dave you’re hard wiv, 
an’ such as yon son o’ the Squire’s. . . , Eh, hoo’ivver can ya resti’ 
the hoose, an knaw, . . . naay, what is Ah sayin’ ? Ya knaw nowt 
— nobody does — that’s the worst on’t. It ’ud noan seem sa bad if 
onybody knew.’ 

All at once Bab’s attention had been arrested. She had turned 
so as to face old Susan, watching her closely, almost fiercely. 

‘ Nobody does know, ya say ? That’s a lie — a downright lie I 
Ya know yerself !’ 

It was in vain the old woman denied, protested, shuffled, wept, 
denied again. The more she protested, the less Bab believed her. 

‘ Now look here, Suzie,’ Bab said at last. ‘ If ya don’t tell me all 
ya know about young Theyn, I go straight this very hour to Dr. 
Douglas an’ tell him what 1 know, what I know about the watch 
that Miss Douglas lost on the sands two years agone. . . • Oh, don’t 
look sa startled ; ya know all about that !’ 

Poor old Suzie I She could hardly be said to turn pale, but the 
smoke-brown tint of her face yielded to a mingled green and 
yellow ; her lips dropped apart, her eyes stared angrily. 

‘ A watch I . . . What are ya talkin’ on, Bab ? Are ya daft to- 
night ? What are ya meanin’ ?’ 

‘Ah’m noan one to waste words!’ Bab replied curtly, ‘You 
know what I mean ! . . . You know what I’m going to do — that is, 
unless ya tell me what they’ve done to — to him ya spoke of —Squire 
Theyn’s son 1 . . . Tell the truth, an’ all the truth, or I start for 
Yarburgh within five minutes.’ 

It was of no avail that the old woman denied all knowledge of 
the matter Barbara spoke of. She had to disclose all she knew ; 
indeed, all she conjectured at last. It was not much ; but Bab was 
satisfied that no more was to be extracted. 

‘ Ah can only guess,’ the poor old fishwife said. ‘ I heerd a word, 
only a word ; ’twas poor Jim spoke it. An’ then somebody said as 
how Dandy Will’s little boat were missing’, an’ Ah couldn’t but put 
two an’ two together. . , . An’ noo,1f ya tell o’ ma, they’ll murther 
ma, as sure as Ah’m stannin’ here I But ya won’t, Bab ; Ah know 
ya won’t. . . . Ya were never one o’ the leaky sort !’ 

Bab’s heart was palpitating ; her eyes seemed blinded with a mist, 
not of tears, but certainly of emotion. Though Susan had done no 
more than confirm poor Nan’s word, the confirmation was more than 
Bab could easily bear then. 

The storm was still raging, the wind was howling round the little 
cottage, wailing in the chimney, beating at the door, shuddering at 
the window. Even there, in the middle of the Forecliff, the sound 
of the sea thundering at the foot of the cliffs, breaking upon the 
shore, booming, as it were, in the very ears of those who listened, 
and of those who would fain cease from listening— even there the 
violence of the storm seemed sufficiently appalling. What must it 
be out at sea ? What could it be to any man exposed to the worst ? 


134 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


— on the deck of a ship for instance, or lashed in the rigging, as 
those had been lashed in the Bight below. That any man should 
be out in such a storm in a small boat and live was an idea to be 
mocked at, if any had heart for such mockery. 

Bab had stood by her own fireside, silent for a while ; but at last 
she spoke ; 

‘ Ya can go noo, Suzie,’ she said at last, speaking gently enough 
now. ‘ The funeral ’ll be the day after to-morrow. The rector’s 
been here, an’ he says Miss Theyn’s goin’ to tak’ all the expense 
hersel’. Ah’ll let her do it ; I wouldn’t ha’ let nobody else. . . . 
It may be a bit o’ satisfaction to her. She’ll ha’ trouble anuff 
now. . . . She cared for Mm — him ’at they’ve done to death oot o’ 
spite. . . . An’ now go, Susan. . . . An’ if ya can fetch any news — 
news o’ him — I’ll pay ya as ya niver was paid for no piece o’ work 
since you were born. . . . Eemember that.’ 

Susan Andoe had hardly left the door of the cottage on the Fore- 
cliff, when Bab, a little to her surprise, saw two other figures 
approaching — an elderly, worn, sorrowful-looking man, and a young 
girl wrapped in a gray cloak, with the hood drawn over her head 
in the place of hat or bonnet, a wise enough arrangement on such 
a day. 

Intuitively Bab recognised Squire Theyn and his younger 
daughter ; and when the old man knocked at the door Bab was at 
least as white, as much overcome by emotion, as Rhoda herself 
was. She listened to the Squire’s questions— questions put briefly, 
calmly, and with dignity, and she answered with a dignity at least 
equal to that she heard. 

‘ I know but little, but very little, sir,’ she replied. The wind 
was shaking the door so violently that she could hardly hold it, 
hardly hear herself speak. ‘ What I do know I’ll tell ya if ya come 
into the house.’ 

‘ That I will not do,’ the Squire replied. ‘ How can you ask it ? 
, . . Tell me what you know about my son.’ 

Bab grew so pale that even Rhoda grew pitiful. 

‘ If you know anything, do tell us,’ Rhoda urged in her hoarse 
low-pitched voice. There was trouble in it, as Bab heard. 

In very few words Barbara told the Squire what she had gathered, 
what she feared. This she did without betraying either the dead 
or the living. 

Squire Theyn listened, looked into the face of the girl who was 
speaking with a dazed, wondering look, as if he hardly understood. 
Then he turned away, stunned, silent. For above an hour he went 
on silently over the cliff- top ways ; and Rhoda, walking beside him, 
had no heart to break that sad silence. 

Then, apparently awakening to her presence all at once, he turned 
quickly, but not savagely, as the child half expected. 

‘ Go home, Rhoda,’ he said, speaking gently enough ; ‘ go home at 
once. . . You can’t walk all the way back to Garlaff. Take 
BkipuOii’s cab. . , . Here’s the money to pay for it.’ 


CONJECTURE VAGUE. 135 

‘ Come with me/ the girl ventured to say, unwonted tears in her 
eyes. ‘ Don’t stay here, father, don’t. . . . What can you do ?’ 

The Squire was not angry, nay, he was touched more than he 
knew ; but no thought of yielding came to him, 

‘ Do as I said, Rhoda ; go home. I’ll come by-and by.’ 

The Squire turned away, but slowly and sadly rather than im- 
patiently; and Rhoda, going back by the Bight, came suddenly upon 
Canon Godfrey and Mrs. Kerne in earnest conversation with David 
Andoe. But David knew very little more than they did, though 
perhaps he feared more. He was about to express his worst fear, 
when Mrs. Kerne discerned Rhoda coming down the pathway that 
led from the cliff. She saw that the girl was alone and in tears. 
Mrs. Kerne’s own face was not free from the sign of weeping. 

‘ Hush !’ she said imperatively ; ‘ say no more now.’ 

Then she turned to her niece with a kindness, a sympathy that 
caused poor Rhoda to break down altogether. If her Aunt Kathe- 
rine could be so gentle, so affectionate as this, things must be look- 
ing very dark indeed. Rhoda’s distress increased her aunt’s attempt 
to relieve it ; and presently they all went together to Laburnum 
Villa, the beautiful new house that Mr. Kerne had built out beyond 
the promenade. Tea was ordered, gas lighted everywhere, fires 
stirred to a blaze ; but Mrs. Kerne’s tears were more than all her 
hospitalities in her niece’s sight. People who have wept together 
are friendlier friends than before. 

When Rhoda went home, her uncle went with her in the cab, and 
did his best to comfort her. 

‘Don’t give up hoping,’ the Canon said understand ingly ; ‘don’t 
do that. Will it help you to know that I, for my part, feel some- 
thing that is almost certainty that I have not looked my last upon 
the face of your brother Hartas ? . . . I won’t say too much ; but 
I will repeat what I have said in other words. I have not yet for 
one moment felt hopeless.’ 

CHAPTER XXXIIL^ 

WATCHING BY THE SEA. 

* Just Heaven instructs us with an awful voice, 

That Conscience rules us e’en against our choice. 

Our inward monitress to guide or warn, 

If listened to,— but, if repelled with scorn, 

At length as dire Kemorse, she reappears, 

Works in our guilty hopes and selfish fears. 

StiU bids Remember 1 and still cries, Too late ! 

And while she scares us, goads us to our fate. ’ 

CoLEEIDGB. 

All alone the old Squire walked there on the wind-swept cliff-top 
— the thundering of the ocean at the foot of the cliffs in his ear, 
the far white wide sea filling all his sight. Night was closing in 
again ; the storm had not abated. Men’s fears were not yet at rest. 


JN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


136 

Some there were who had especial cause for fear. Dick Eeah, 
not able to bear the sight of the little inn after the inqniry, during 
which he had been called upon to give evidence as to the death of 
Jim Tyas, had escaped from the place altogether, taking up his 
quarters at Danesborough. Sampey Yerrill took a different view 
of the matter, and was not by any entreaty of wife or child to be 
drawn from walking to and fro by the edge of the still stormy sea. 
At high water, when he might walk there no longer, he took his 
stand on a rugged point of blue-black rock to the south of the 
Bight, and remained there till the tide had turned. He might not 
escape from that drear watch- point if he would, till the receding 
sea gave him permission. 

They did not know of each other, these two lonely watchers. 
All night the Squire walked up and down to the north of the 
Bight ; al] night Samson Yerrill sat or stood on the point of rock 
to the south, within a few feet of the sea that was still tossing 
wildly, madly, eagerly, as if no cry of lamentation were going up 
from the little bay for the deaths it had already caused. 

At daybreak three of the drowned Burrells were found lying on 
the shore— the father was there, his eldest son, and the youngest. 
They were taken home, and a day or two later they were laid to 
rest in the old churchyard. You may see the tombstone now, with 
the date and manner of their death told in brief words. It is all 
the biography of men who lived brave lives, and died sad deaths, 
and it is told in some five or six lines cut with a graver’s tool. 

This is the conclusion : 

* Through many various tempests have we past, 

But a safe harbour we have found at last.’ 

It was David Andoe who found the youngest Burrell lying 
among the weed-covered stones to the north of the bay. David 
was sauntering over the beach, hoping to meet Samson Yerrill, to 
get the truth from him as to what had become of Squire Theyn’s 
son. David could npt yet quite believe the tale that was spreading 
everywhere now ; yet he feared that Sampey knew whether it were 
true or no. How else could his strange conduct be accounted for ? 
Why should he be wandering about among the rocks by night and 
by day, only going home for a few moments at a time to snatch a 
little food between the tides ? Surely Samson knew something, 
and David was fain to learn what he knew. 

But when at last opportunity came, he could extract no details. 
Samson would acknowledge nothing, deny nothing. 

‘ For the sake o’ yon old man, hU father, as is wandering aboot 
yon cliffs — for his sake tell me the truth, Sampey.’ 

So David urged ; but the truth did not come. 

‘ If the Squire’s watchin’, let him watch. I’d noan hinder him !’ 

That V as all that Samson Yerrill would say. But he turned 
back to his own watching, and David could hardly fail to fear the 
worst. 


WATCHING BY THE SEA. 


137 


Another night passed, the storm continued, and at daybreak the 
ocean seemed churned^ so to speak, so far did the white surf extend, 
BO entirely one mass of surging foam did it appear to be. 

That a small boat should be anywhere on such a sea anS not be 
broken to matchwood seemed an impossibility. The one possible 
thing was an event not to be thought of without pain, even by 
those least concerned. 

Hope dies hardly — how hardly let those say who have spent not 
only days but long nights in the endurance of the agony of 
desperate hoping. 

No entreaty prevailed with Squire Theyn. All the first night he 
had walked there, wind-driven, rain-swept, on the cliff-top. His 
eyes had looked upon the sea at even, while the last ray of light was 
dying from the farthest white wave, and his sight swept the same 
sea when the first ray of morning broke above the eastern horizon, 
spreading so slowly, so very slowly to the margin of the sea at his 
feet. And in all that wide stretch of water there was no sail, nor 
any boat ; there was nothing for the poor old man’s wearied gaze 
to rest upon save the stormy sea itself. 

Very weary he was, for the soul within him was already fainting. 

‘ Hartas !’ he said, speaking softly, as if he were heard. ‘ Hartas 1 
forgive me ! . . . Forgive me, and come back. . . . I’ve not been a 
good father to you, but things shall be different. , . . Only come 
back V 

When the day was full in the sky he went home and took some 
food when Khoda urged him, and rested awhile. But before night- 
fall he went back to the cliff- top pathway ; and when Canon 
Godfrey, wearied with his day’s work, his many visits to the 
cottages of the bereaved, his ministrations in the churchyard — 
when the Canon joined the old man, and would have walked with 
him, he found no response. 

‘ Leave me — leave me alone !’ the Squire prayed. ‘ It is all I ask 
of any human being now, that I may be left alone !’ 

On the fourth day the storm w^nt down, but the comparative 
calm brought no hope to any who believed that Hartas Theyn had 
been dealt with as the people on the Forecliff were declaring. 
But little else was talked of in the place now. Dick Reah had 
never returned from Danesborough. Samson Verrill still went to 
and fro on the rocks, already a mere shadow of himself ; and the 
sight of the Squire’s gray, gaunt figure, going up and down tho 
hillside road in the twilight and at dawn, drew tears from eyes not 
much accustomed to weeping. 

Each day the carriage came down from the Rectory with Mrs. 
Godfrey in it, and sometimes Mrs. Meredith and her son Percival. 
Thorhilda did not come. 

And none saw Barbara Burdas outside the cottage door during 
these terrible days. It was understood that she must have enough 
to do. One day there had been a double funeral, attended by half 
the people of the Bight. James Grainger Tyas, fisherman, and 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


138 

Ann Eliza, his wife, had been laid side by side in the old church- 
yard at Yar burgh, on the same day, in the same hour. Bab Burdas 
was there by the two graves, the three-days old baby safely 
sheltered in her arms. 

‘ I’ll tell ya on it some day, my bairn,’ she whispered through her 
blinding tears to the little one. ‘ An’ maybe you’ll be glad to know 
I brought you here. . . . that is, if you may ever be glad at 
all, bein’ fatherless an’ motherless ! , . . But, eh, God helpin’ me, 
you shall never miss them I . , • I’ll be father an’ mother to you', 
both i’ one 1’ 

That day passed, and then the next. Yet no tidings came 
of Hartas Theyn. 

Khoda wept at home, growing paler and thinner ; yet she did her 
father’s bidding, and kept one room ready for anything that might 
happen, doing all more willingly* and gladly than ever before. 
Even her short-sighted and self-absorbed Aunt Averill marvelled 
at the change, and had not the human grace to keep her marvelling 
to herself. 

And Bab Burdas wept in the rude house on the Forecliff ; but 
not when anyone was by to see. Bab’s weeping was done when her 
grandfather and the children were in bed, and Nan’s baby lay 
quietly smiling and sleeping on her lap. ... It was only then that 
Bab gave way. 

So another day went on — it was the sixth. 

And yet another came and went. 

Each night Squire Theyn had kept his vigil on the cliff to the 
north of the Bight of Ulvstan ; and the people saw and wondered. 
Was the old man going to watch there for ever ? What was he 
hoping now ? What could he be thinking ? 

They could not hear what he still kept saying : 

* Hartas ! Hartas ! forgive me ! Come back, and forgive me ! I 
wasn’t a good father, but I cared for you. I always cared. . . . 
Even when you were a little lad, I cared. . . . Come back again V 

At last came the eighth evening — the eighth from that on which 
three angry and resentful men had sought to express their resent- 
ment in a manner not altogether unknown in the annals of Ulvstan 
Bight. And now one was lying in the churchyard at Yarburgh ; 
one was drowning his remorse in drink at Danesborough ; and 
one was trying in his own dumb and blind way to atone by wander- 
ing among the rocks by the edge of that sea that might give up the 
dead, but could surely never give up the living man to whom that 
cruel deed had been done. 

‘ Yon Sampey Verrill’s losin’ his senses, he mun be !* 

It was old Hagar Furniss who spoke. She had gone in to help 
Bab awhile, as she did almost every evening now when her own 
day’s work was done, knowing that nothing she could do for Bab 
would be unrequited. 

The old woman saw at once that some change had come over 
Barbara. The girl’s face was flushed to a burning crimson ; her 


WATCHING BY THE SEA. 


139 

eyes bright and restless ; her lips seemed to tremble when she 
spoke. 

‘ Eh, but IVe looked long for yon, Hagar !’ she said eagerly. 
‘ I’m wanting you sorely ! Can you stay the night, all night here 
with the bairn ? Say you can !’ 

‘ Ah can stay if Ah’m wanted, honey !’ the old woman replied 
kindly. ‘ What’s wrong ? Naught wi’ the bairn, I hope ?’ 

‘ No, it’s none her, thank God ! But I’m goin’ out o’ doors. I 
must go. . . . Don’t ask ma no question, Hagar ! Give the little 
one all she needs, an’ take the best o’ care on her. ... I must go at 
once V 

Then, kissing the new-born infant, taking an anxious look at the 
sleeping children in the next room, at little Ailsie in the room 
above, Bab went out. 

It was dark by this time ; but not entirely dark. There was no 
moon ; but that wondrous clear, deep starlight so often seen on 
autumn evenings in the north seemed to glow upon the earth as if 
sonie light came from below to meet that from above. 

Bab took her way to the north without a thought ; going down 
into the Bight, up the opposite cliff-side, and away out across the 
cliff-fields. The Squire was there ; she passed him silently, tremu- 
lously, about a mile and a half beyond the Bight. He too was 
going northward, but slowly, wearily, hopelessly. A sigh reached 
Bab 's ears as she flew, on ward — a long sad sigh that was half a 
groan, and drew the tears from her eyes once more ; a very passion 
of tears — blinding, scalding, not relieving. She felt shattered 
when the moment was over. 

And yet she was not hopeless, not as others were. Had she had 
no thought that Hartas Theyn was yet alive she had not been there. 

Bab was too sensitive to ridicule to have been able to tell aynone 
about her of the real reason for her present action. 

‘ I could ha’ told Tier ’ (‘ her ’ meaning always Miss Theyn) — 
‘ I could ha’ told her ’at I was moved by a dream. She wouldn’t 
ha’ laughed at me. She wouldn’t ha’ looked at me as if she 
thought I was a fool.’ 

‘ A dream— only a dream ; but one so vivid that all day Bab had 
lived and moved in the atmosphere of it. 

For days past all her thought, all her imagining, had been of the 
sea, and of what might be happening somewhere out upon it if the 
things that people were whispering were true ; and almost as a 
matter of course her dream had been a sea-dream. 

She seemed to see it quite plainly, even after she awoke — the 
wide stormy ocean she knew so well ; and far away in the horizon 
a boat, a mere dark speck upon a shining floor. And she had known 
— at once she had knowm— that in the boat was a solitary man, the 
man she loved. Then all at once, as things do happen in dreams, 
she had found herself in the same tiny craft, and there, at her feet, 
this man dying or fainting. She took the dark, drooping head in 
her arms, the hair wet with the salt sea- spray, and in her dream she 


140 


IN EXCHANGE FOE A SOUL 


caressed it, in her dream she kissed the pallid lips ; kissed them 
again and again ; kissed them so passionately that once more life, 
dear life, breathed through them. 

And with this breath of another’s life on her lip she awoke. 

This was why Bab was out upon the cliff-top that calm star -lit 
night ; this was why she remained there, waiting to see what might 
come to pass. 

She no more came so near to the Squire, though she knew of his 
presence there. Always she remained a little farther to the north, 
receding when he advanced. Her instinct toward self-effacement in 
all things had developed rapidly of late. It was a certain sign of 
other developments. Only the coarser soul desires to be aggres- 
sively en 4vidence. 

Long after midnight Bab watched there. She thought oft^n of 
the old man behind ; of what his sorrow must be, his longing, his 
weariness, his despair. Her heart yearned toward him ; for 
another’s sake, perhaps, still the yearning was tender and true. If 
only she might have spoken to him ; if only she might have dared 
to comfort him with the hope that still lingered in her own heart I 

So the night went on— that long, drear, silent night. 

At last the dawn broke ; a soft, pink-gray dawn above a soft, 
pink-gray sea. 

Slowly the faint pink deepened to rose colour ; slowly the rose- 
tint spread across the wide, far distance. 

Then, presently, above the pure rose-red, a glowing gold gleamed 
through the shining edge of each ascending cloud ; pearl-gray 
shadows subdued the amber and the rose into one lovely harmony 
of colour ; the sea took up each note and repeated it ; while over- 
head, even now, the stars were fading one by one from the night- 
toned ether of deepest blue. Bab had seen many sunrises, but none 
had moved her as she was moved now. 

She was standing on the farthest point of the big brown point 
called Scarcliff Nab, tremulous, hopeful, admiring, despairing, ex- 
pectant ; above all, expectant. Every moment the scene about her 
seemed to reproduce more closely the scene of the vision she had 
had. 

Expectant ! Yes, her very soul seemed to tremble within her as 
her quick sight swept the sea-leagues of the wide horizon before 
her. Her heart was beating wildly. This was the scene ! this the 
light ; this the hour ! this the moment I 

‘ He is there ! he must be there ! And yet no, not there, but 
here — somewhere near to me. . . 1 feel it I I know it ! . . . He 

is living ! He is near I’ 

Bab did not say these things ; even to herself she did not say 
them. 

For a long time, or long it seemed, she stood there on the brown, 
rugged ness. The light morning breeze sighed as it passed her by ; 
she had no sigh to give in response. Her whole being was strained 
to the utmost tension she might bear. 


AN UNUSUAL EXPERIENCE, 


141 

At last ! at last / at last I Bab knelt on the dark bare rock, 
and covered her face with her hands ; and as she knelt she prayed ; 
prayed passionate prayers for whomsoever might be living, or 
dying, in the far-off speck that she knew to be a boat. 

But for her dream, that warning dream, she had not been there. 

Beyond doubt this was the very boat of her dream, the very 
aspect it had had in that vision of the night, a mere dark speck out 
upon a wide and shining sea. 

‘ He is there ! living or dead, he is there f Barbara said, rising to 
her feet, and hastening over the cliffs to find the old man, who was 
yet doubtless watching. ‘ Living or dead^ Hartas Theyn is in yon 
little hoatP 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

AN UNUSUAL EXPERIENCE. 

It may be, somewhat thus we shall have leave 

To walk with memory, — when distant lies 

Poor earth, where we were wont to live and grieve.* 

Wm. Allingham. 

To sit by a warm fireside on a stormy night of autumn or of 
winter, the glow of the crackling coal brightening the forefront of 
the scene ; the lamplight enlivening the mid-distance ; curtains 
carefully drawn over door and window— to sit thus and listen to 
the incessant roar of the sea at the foot of the cliffs — but just out- 
side, is a state of things apt to have very different effects upon 
different natures. One man will feel how good and pleasant it is 
to be safe and comfortable indoors ; another will not perceive his 
thought or emotion to be changed in any way ; while a third will 
be saddened : consciously or unconsciously his mind will wander to 
those who must go down to the sea in ships and do business in great 
waters. To be aware that only a stone’s throw away some brave 
ship may be sinking to her doom, with souls on board, despairing, 
helpless, hopeless — to be reminded of this by the ceaseless surging 
of the sea is to have but little peace of mind while the gale may 
last. One may readily be brought to wonder why, since the eye 
may be closed from seeing, the tongue made to cease from speaking, 
the ear alone should be undefended by any power over its own 
function ? To be able to close one’s ears as easily as the eyes are 
closed would seem a boon not easily to be overrated — certainly not 
while compelled to listen to a wild storm at sea. 

Night by night, while the hurricane lasted, Damian Aidenmede 
walked on the beach, now talking with this fisherman, now with 
that, and seldom returning to his lodgings on the Forecliff before 
midnight, and bearing within himself then a sense of apprehension, 
of dread, not to be done away by any reasoning, any argument. 

He had never seen much of Hartas Theyn, and the little he had 
seen had not been calculated to awaken any esteem ; yet, strangely 


142 


[N EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, 


enough, he was aware of a certain drawing, a certain attraction. 
He had discerned that the face that could look so sullen, so heavy, 
could yet flush with generous feeling. ; that the eyes from which 
such fierce anger could flash were yet eyes that could sof teu to love 
and love’s most pathetic expression. 

‘ He seems on the way to ruin,’ the artist had said to himself ; 
‘ but I fancy he is one of the few so tending that one would care to 
save from going any farther. He may be saved — I feel sure that 
he may ; his strong and pure love for Barbara Burdas may be the 
means of saving him. . . . Perhaps I have not seen the matter all 
round.* 

These thoughts had come to him only an hour or two before he 
had heard that Hartas was missing, and inevitably the distressing 
news had deepened his compassion to the uttermost, and some self- 
blame was mingled with his thought as he paced the narrow floor 
of his lodging in a very throe of pity and pain. 

Night by night, during this sad, strange week, Damian Alden- 
mede was thus constrained by his suffering for another , and night 
by night the man for whom he suffered was tossing out at sea, 
drifting there alone, yet not altogether despairing, not in any sense 
desperate. 

It had been no easy matter to undo the ropes wherewith he had 
been bound ; yet he had found it possible, after long effort, to free 
himself, and with the unfastening of the last knot one phase of 
his physical suffering had ended. 

The sense of being so bound that he could not lift his arms, or 
raise his hand to bis head, had gradually and quite unexpectedly 
become a very terrible thing, so terrible that for some two hours 
this alone seemed as if it might be a sufficient cause of death. 

Why, because he was not able to move his limbs, he should have 
felt that he could not breathe, is probably as much a question for 
the psychologist as the physiologist. The intolerable sense as of 
strangulation might possibly have been avoided by anyone who had 
understood the matter sufficiently well to enable him to remain 
calm, refraining from all effort, or only making effort of the 
quietest. But this Hartas did not understand. How should he ? 
So long as his position had bad the interest of novelty, so long as 
others had been near at hand to witness his coolness, his bravery — 
which yet was not assumed — till then there had been motive enough 
to sustain his mood. And it was not till some four or five hours 
had passed by that nature recoiled upon him, and the recoil was 
strong. The truth of those succeeding hours could never be told 
in words, written or spoken. 

Silvio Pellico has related, for the interest of all time, how 
terrible are the first hours and days of life within prison walls. 
The sense of confinement, of the nearness of everything, of ihe 
inability to mo^e beyond a certain limit, must in itself be suffi- 
ciently dreadful ; yet in most recorded cases it would seem as if 
another dread had been added, vague, pitiful, terrifying, unspeak- 


AN UNUSUAL EXPERIENCE. 


143 

able. Hartas Theyn bad known but little of such records, so that 
whatever his sensations might be they were not charged with the 
experience of others. And in one sense his present state bore no 
resemblance to the state of a man imprisoned. No walls enclosed 
him ; the rising wind swept across his heated forehead refreshingly ; 
there was the consciousness of limitless space about him every- 
where. Yet so long as he was bound his suffering was intense, and 
the effort to free himself from tlie ropes, the painful, powerful, 
long-continued effort, was producing something that might without 
exaggeration be called agony. . . . But at last he was free, and for 
a time he knew nothing but grateful sensation. 

And all the while the hurricane was increasing, the little boat 
was tossing to and fro like a nutshell upon that wide waste of 
watt rs. And now the darkness was of itself a terrible thing. No 
light was visible anywhere, either on the land or on the sea ; the 
stars were overspread by the dense storm-cloud. Nothing remained 
save the heaving sea — heaving, splashing, rolling in that dread 
darkness. A stouter heart than that of Hartas Theyn might have 
quailed. 

Inevitably in such an hour the man was brought face to face 
with himself, with his own soul. 

When no future remains, the present is quickly effaced ; it is the 
past that becomes all we have to offer. 

To offer ! When we think of it so — the offering of that past 
life of ours with all its shortcomings, all its sins, all its selfishnesses, 
its lit tie care for others, the few hours spent in prayer, the many 
hours given to the world and worldly matters ; when we would 
think of this brief earthly life thus, as of something that the soul 
must take with it — must bring as an offering to lay down at the 
feet of Him who sits upon the Great White Throne, then we do 
not dare to think — thought is silenced. 

The life is there ; it has been lived. Not one hour of it may be 
effaced, not one hour lived over again. 

To Hartas Theyn that time of silence was long, and dark, and 
fearful ; he dreaded the awakening of thought that he knew must 
come if life remained ,to him but a little while longer. 

It is said that drowning men see all the past as in a lightning 
flash ; and this is entirely conceivable. We most of us have such 
moments, even when we are far from any chance of drowning. 
Sometimes they come, as in a dream, between sleeping and waking 
— sometimes in hours of deep grief, of anxiety, of suspense. Now 
and then a flash of disclosing light crosses a moment of intense 
joy. . . . Usually this disclosure, or the effect of it, remains with us 
— usually for our good. 

The time of enlightenment that came to Hartas Theyn could 
certainly not be spoken of as momentary ; it lasted for some hours 
— hours of vivid, vigorous presentment of all the chief incidents 
and features of his past life ; and each one was heightened as by 
the light of some spiritual electricity, so that every detail was seen 


144 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


and in an altogether new aspect. There was nothing now to hide 
his nakedness from his own soul’s sight. He saw that he was 
naked, and he saw it to his bitter and painful shame. 

Strangely enough, the very words of St. Paul came to him as he 
sat there, chilled, suffering much in body, and yet more in mind. 
Doubtless they w§re as an echo from some sermon heard long 
ago ; 

‘ For in this we groan, earnestly desiring to be clothed upon with our house 
which is from heaven : 

K so be that being clothed we shall not be found naked.' 

It was somewhat of a surprise to himself that a text of Scripture 
should cross his mind, especially since it appeared to come with 
some accuracy ; that he should be drawn to dwell upon it, to try 
to find the meaning of it, was more surprising still. 

He had yet to learn how true it is that even the smallest amount 
of spiritual awakening, of spiritual light and strength, means an 
immense widening of whatever powers the intellect may possess. 

Carlyle's definition of genius is this : 

* The clearer presence of God Most High in the soul of man.* 

And it is certain that no truer or finer definition of that mysterious 
quality, or faculty, has been given to the world as yet. No sooner 
does a man begin to be aware of some higher influence working 
within his soul than he becomes also aware that that higher in- 
fluence, acting through the soul, is developing his thinking and 
reasoning and perceiving powers to the uttermost. The event, 
unprecedented in his soul’s history, is equally unprecedented in his 
mental history— a fact he is apt to perceive with as much regret 
as astonishment. He now knows what he ‘ might have been 

But how dimly he knows ! His utmost imagination may not 
disclose to him all that true living had disclosed. 

That night at sea— that first dread night of many that were to 
be yet more dread, was a crisis in the life of Hartas Theyn. 

How could he have been so senseless, so unseeing ? . . . By- 
and-by he became aware that this comparative sight was but as 
comparative blindness. 

And over and over came the thought. What I might have been I 
If I had tried simply to do what I knew to be right, to be wise ; 
if, as the Canon said the other day, I had but been true to the 
light I had, what might I not have been ?’ 

And then thought itself seemed hushed. He could not realize 
the man he might have been had he been happy, good, respected, 
at peace with others, at ease with himself. The ideas were all too 
dim, too unusual. He was not equal to the double strain of 
listening to a wild storm that was blowing so closely about him, 
and at the same time creating a vision of that slain self whose 
wreck he was. 


AN UNUSUAL EXPERIENCE. 


145 


He knew the wreck. 

‘ If I had been different, all had been different,’ he said, speaking 
audibly, since there was none to hear. ‘She would have cared 
then ; she might even have looked up to me, instead of despising 
me, as I know she does. ... as I know she has done ! , . . How 
will it be with her, with others, when I am only a memory ? . • . 
Will they care to remember at all ? Can she forget f 

But as he lay there, the boat lurching heavily from side to side, 
shuddering under the blows «f wind and wave, the power of 
consecutive thought began to desert him. Very gradually it 
departed from him ; but there came an hour when neither remorse, 
nor hope, nor fear dwelt with him persistently. It was only by 
moments at a time that he could lay bare his soul before that 
Unknown God whom hitherto he had only thought of with a blind, 
unreasoning, ignorant dread. It did not even seem strange to him 
that the dread had passed away, that he could speak as to One near 
— not speaking complainingly, not bitterly, not even as one be- 
wailing his evil case ; but simply as one seeking forgiveness, first of 
all forgiveness ; and to this end he did not spare himself in confes- 
sion. From the first memory of his life to the last there was relief, 
unutterable relief, in laying bare his soul before that soul’s Maker, 
in desiring pardon for sins remembered and unremembered — sins of 
boyhood and of later age, sins of omission and sins of commission, 
sins of body and sins of soul — never before had he known such 
relief as that which came to him as he tossed there on the midnight 
sea, recalling all his life, all his errors ; and then, in desiring for- 
giveness for the same, bending his knee as reverently as he might, 
but only able to do this for moments at a time. First, forgiveness 
he craved ; then compassion ; last of all, companionship. 

‘ Be near me !’ he cried, when once more the darkness came down 
and the storm was apparently at its worst. ‘ Be near me ! I don’t 
deserve it ; I know, I feel I do not. But stay with me, good God — 
stay with me through this night !’ 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

STILL DRIFTING, DRIFTING ON. NO LAND, NO SAIL. 

• O, let me be awake, my God I 
Or let me sleep alway.’ 

Again the darkness fell and stayed ; the storm still raged on ; and 
a long period of merciful unconsciousness came upon Hartas 
Theyn, whether of sleep or of the semblance of coma that comes 
of exhaustion and hunger, he did not know, nor might he know 
how long it had lasted, whether four hours or forty. He awoke at 
last, unrefreshed, and consumed by a burning thirst. That was his 
worst physical trouble, that terrible thirst. 

Only once did a dread paroxysm of hunger seize him. Since 
then he has written the story of that fierce hour on paper — in 

10 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


146 

a little book not yet yellow with age or worn with time. There is 
no needs to reproduce his words here. Suffering of that kind may 
be studied, by all who care for such study, in . many accounts of 
shipwreck, and in most records of Arctic research^ It is not 
always profitable. 

Afterward it seemed to him that all that had been really terrible 
had lain within the lines of his mental or spiritual suffering, rather 
than in the physicaL 

From time to time there arose a cry in his heart, but now it was 
one cry, and now another. 

‘Would that I might live my life again!’ That was the cry 
that came most frequently, ‘ Would that 1 might live but one 
week of that old life ! 

‘ To see my father's face, to sit there by the old fireside, were it 
but for an hour — hut for one hour — oh, God, what would I not 
give ? 

‘ And to see her^ to touch her hand ! Is it possible that yesterday 
—was it yesterday ? was it a week ago ? — I might have done it ? 
And I did not know. I did not know what it all meant, that 
heavy, stupid, misused life. No, I knew nothing yesterday.’ 

And ever between his wordless thought there came the sound of 
the wind as it rose passionately, and fell with its own disturbed 
sadness. And the waves leapt upon the little boat, and hurled and 
clashed together, now in the darkness, and now in the dawn, now in 
the drear setting of the sun. And he who was drifting there did 
not always know whether the dim light meant the coming on 
of night or the departing ; for ever again and again came that 
prolonged merciful unconsciousness. 

The thunderstorm that broke upon the Bight of Ulvstan about 
that hour when Jim Tyas came to his death had not seemed so 
terrible to Hartas Theyn, and by that he knew that he must have 
been far enough away at fhat time. The recollection of it was 
about the last definite recollection that he had. ^ 

After that, for some four or five days and nights, he must have 
lain more or less in that strange and ever-deepening stupor. It 
was not — so he thought — at any time pure, simple, refreshing sleep. 
Though he dreamt strange dreams, and had strange visions, yet it 
was not sleep. 

Alwap while the storm lasted he was conscious of the deafening, 
exhausting rush and roar of the wind, the whirl, and flash, and roll 
of the vast unbroken waves. That the wind had remained so long 
unchanged, so that he was kept out there in the deep water, had 
been matter of gratitude too deep for words. Having no oars, he 
could have done nothing to help himself, and he knew that if 
he were once to come near to the broken surf that fringed the land 
nothing could save him. 

Yet the knowledge did not now, even in his waking moments, 
distress him ; feeling was too much benumbed for that. It would 
soon be over, that last dread strife, with that last dread enemy to 


HO W RESCUE CAME. 147 

be destroyed ; while the death he was even now dying, hour by 
hour, might in the end be very painful. 

The storm began to subside during the fourth night, and Hartas, 
rousing himself from a long lethargic slumber, saw the gleam 
of the rising sun upon the gradually calming sea. But he saw 
nothing else — no sail, no land. 

Thrice a screw-steamer had passed by, one quite near, and he had 
managed to stand up in the boat to wave his blue silk scarf to and 
fro with some energy ; but the steamer passed on, and took no 
notice. It was a time of harrowing excitement and suspense, and 
what wonder that he felt sure that he had been seen ? The two 
other steamers were too far away for suspicion, though each time 
his effort was made to the uttermost of his power. 

All the last days and nights, the dawns, the twilights, seemed 
mingled together in a strange confusion ; and since the calm that 
succeeded the storm was so great, there was now no external 
influence to arouse him. The temperature was not low for the 
time of year ; he had no sense of hunger ; there was nothing to be 
done but to lie in seeming slumber, drifting, on, and on, and on, not 
even knowing that since the wind had changed he must be drifting 
back within sight of land. 

From all suffering he had ceased, from all hoping, from all 
despairing. That last dawn rose slowly, quietly, holily ; and it rose 
upon one who might see nothing of its beauty, know nothing of its 
dread solemnity. The little boat might have been his bier for all 
he knew. 


CHAPTER XXXYL 

HOW RESCUE CAME. 

‘ Touch not— hold 1 

And if you weep still, weep where John was laid 
While Jesus loved him.' 

E. B. Browning. 

Long afterward Barbara Burdas remembered that autumn morn- 
ing, and remembered certain passages of it with a feeling that was 
almost shame. Had she really forgotten herself so far, her position, 
the strange complications of her life, as to put her trembling hand 
upon Squire Theyn’s arm, to urge him to come with her at once — 
at once / 

‘ He is there P she had cried, one hand pressing in excited entreaty 
the old man’s shoulder, the other pointing to that speck out upon 
the rose- red sea. ‘ Do you understand ? It is your son ! He 
is there, out at sea — dead, or alive^ he is there / Won’t you come 
with me ? Won’t you come at once 

The Squire did not repulse her in any way, yet he did not 
respond, or seem to comprehend. The old man was wearied by the 
want of sleep, exhausted by sorrow, by remorse, by suspense. The 
words he heard were only half understood, and this Barbara per- 

10—2 


JN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


148 

ceived. But she dared not, could not stay longer there. Besides, 
her instinct told her that Squire Theyn could not be of use in the 
present crisis. 

‘ He is there P she repeated as she flew on over the fields, brushing 
the dew from the grass, from the tall dead hemlocks, the crisp rest- 
harrow ; her eyes still straining to watch that small dark speck out 
upon the wide, still sea. ‘ He is there f she kept on saying, saying 
it solely for her own consolation. 

There was no one else to be consoled. The little townlet had 
not yet awakened, and the tide being barely half out, Samson 
Verrill had not yet returned from the lonely point of rock where 
he still kept watch. Barbara knew that he would be there, and she 
knew that all the little world about her would be yet asleep, 
and that time would be required for any effective awakening. And 
who could say what time might mean ? A quarter of an hour — 
nay, five minutes might mean much to a man who had been drifting 
about the North Sea without sustenance of any kind for over 
a week. There was no opportunity for deliberation. Barbara flew 
down to the beach, unmoored the lightest boat she could find there, 
and managed by almost superhuman effort to launch it all alone. 
As she drew rapidly aw^ay from the shore, she saw that the Squire 
was hastening down the cliff ; had he understood at last ? Would 
he do all that might be done in the way of preparation for her 
return — her return, and his — his of whom not only her thought but 
her very life seemed full ? The smoke was beginning to curl 
upward from a cottage chimney on the Forecliff ; the gulls from 
the rocks to the south were flying in and out by myriads, chuckling, 
screaming, subsiding, rising again ; and there, far away upon the 
dark point in the distance, Samson Yerrill stood, lonely between sea 
and sky. Barbara could see him quite plainly, and he would see 
her, that she knew, and he would wonder what her errand might 
be ; not being able from his own comparatively low-lying position 
to see the speck that she had seen from the utmost height of the 
northern cliff -top. But Barbara did not think long of Samson 
Verrill. Thought was merged in action, in effort ; such effort as 
Barbara herself had never made before this hour. Not the strongest 
man could have made swifter progress ; yet, after nearly an hour’s 
rowing, that dark speck still seemed leagues away upon the sub- 
siding silvery gray of the sunlit sea. 

It was not always that Barbara could see the small dark point 
which she knew to be a boat, yet she rowed on in the direction 
where she had first seen it ; and now and then for her helping she 
caught sight of it, and the sight lent alw^ays fresh energy to 
her utmost effort. 

At last she came nearer, consciously, tremulously. She had not 
been mistaken, it was a boat, a small, brightly painted boat, blue 
and white and vivid green, the exact counterpart of that she knew 
to be missing ; but w^hy should she say even that to her herself, 
being so assured it was the same ? She stood up in her own boat, 


now RESCUE CAME. 


149 

shading hvar eyes with her hand from the uprising sun. Then sud- 
denly she felt her face flush with fear, with a strange unknown 
dread. After all, coidd it be that the boat was empty ? Was 
it possible ? She saw no sign. 

More slowly, more sadly now, she bent herself again to the oars, 
then sadder and slower still, as one who draws near to the bed on 
which a friend is lying, breathing out the last breath of the life 
that had been to others so precious, so dear. 

The girl dared not look. She paused a little, rowed on again, 
stopped, covering her face with her hands. She was quite near, yet 
no sign came, no sound. ... At last, she raised her head. 

A wild throbbing pulsation seized all her frame. He was there ; 
Someone was there — a dark figure was lying helplessly at the 
bottom of the boat, toward the stern. And it was the figure 
of him she had seen in her dream. 

She made no cry, asked no question : that would have been so use- 
less. And then it was that she entered into that vivid vision once 
more, not conscious of what she did. Afterward the dream and 
the deeds of its realization were as one in her recollection. 

She made no effort to .. ouse or to move the prostrate, stirless 
figure that lay, as the dead lie, at the bottom of the boat ; but, 
seeing it, regret awoke like a lightning flash. Why had she brought 
no food, no water, no restoratives of any kind ? Had excitement 
bereft her of sense ? 

She hardly dared to look upon the pallid face, above which the 
heavy black hair was lying in wild disarrangement. Removing the 
oars from the boat she was in, placing them in the rowlocks of the 
little boat that had been drifting to and fro during the terrible 
storm, she sat down for a moment or two overcome by exhaustion, 
by emotion. Yet she could not look upon the face of Hartas Theyn. 

Presently she took the boat in which she had rowed out in tow, 
and started back for the land. For near two hours she pulled 
slowly to the shore, knowing but little more than Hartas Theyn 
himself knew. 

By this time there was a crowd gathered upon the beach, an 
eager, anxious, fervid, almost unbelieving crowd. David Andoe 
was foremost in grasping the bow of the boat as it grated upon the 
bed of gravel. Damian Aldenmede was but just behind, and had 
the greater strength of the two. Between them they lifted the 
dead, or dying, man to the shore, and carried him to the nearest 
house. Early as it yet was, Canon Godfrey was there, and Mrs. 
Kerne. The news had spread fast and far. ... As a matter of 
course, old Ephraim was in the very forefront of the scene ; and to 
Barbara’s satisfaction he was there when David Andoe returned, 
and was able to help her to reach the cottage on the Forecliff. 
She needed help, though she was hardly able to thank those 
who helped her. 

‘ Let me be,’ she said faintly, as she sank into a chair by the fire, 
t me be ! . . . It’s all I’d ask of you — let me be !’ 


IN EXCHANGE FOE A SOUL. 


ISO 


CHAPTER XXX7IL 

FOKGIVENESS. 

A MERRiCLE ! Noan sa much of a meiricle !* said old Ephraim 
when they told him with many wondering words that Hartas Theyn 
yet lived. ‘ Whya Ah’ve knowed a man mysel’, the captain o’ the 
Eagle brigantine, sailing fra Shields for Dieppe’ {Deep^ he called 
it), ‘ laden wi’ coals. An’ the vessel were o’erta’en i’ the gale o’ 
’31 ; an’ ivery man aboard except the Captain were washed off o’ 
the deck wiv a single sweep of a single wave, an’ he’d ha’ gone an’ 
all ef so it hadn’t been ’at he’d been lashed to the mast. Bat 
lashed he were, an’ — fortnit for him — lashed he remained. Noo 
mind it’s no lie Ah’m tellin’ o’ ya. Ah knowed the man, Hebbin’ton, 
his name were, Captain Hebbin’ton, but whether James or John, 
Ah’ll not saay. But this Ah will saay, for I heerd him tell the 
taale wi’ my oan ears, as how he were tossin’ aboot i’ the German 
Ocean for no less nor two-an’-twenty days — noo, two-and-twenty ! 
Think o’ that I An’ never no bite nor sup passed his lips save once, 
an’ that was after a heavy rain, when he wrung his shirt-sleeves, 
an’ so got a few drops o’ water! That were something like a 
marvel ! . . . Eight days ! an’ the last fouer on ’em fairly mild 
weather ! Well, it’s hardly much to boast on, let aloane callin’ it a 
merricle I’ 

Such was old Ephraim’s opinion, but it need hardly be said that 
it was not generally held throughout the neighbourhood. The 
Squire’s son had been removed, so soon as Dr. Douglas considered 
it safe, to Mrs. Kerne’s house, where he lay. still exhausted, still 
silent, still pallid.. Thorhilda and Mrs. Godfrey came and went ; 
Rhoda came and stayed ; and the Squire seldom left Laburnum 
Villa till nightfall. Yet, so far, little was known to anyone of 
Hartas’s experience during that terrible time, or its effect upon 
himself. It was evident that he could not talk of these things 
as yet. 

VV hen at last his strength did begin to return to him it was but 
natural that his father should ask him of the beginning of the 
strange event ; that he should desire to know how it had been^^ 
brought about, and, above all, by whose immediate agency. The 
Squire had only suspicion where others felt certainty. 

It was a fine October afternoon when the old man first spoke of 
the past. The sun was streaming through Mrs. Kerne’s costly 
Indian curtains ; shining into a large richly-furnished room, laden 
with ornament of perhaps not the most refined description. Hartas 
was lying upon a sofa near the fire, his father sat on a chair near 
the foot of it. Canon Godfrey was by his side. Mrs. Kerne was 
walking up and down the room, knitting as she went, openly 
CO 7.ssing herself too nervous to sit still. 

‘ You must forgive me, you must bear with me,’ Hartas said, 
raising himself by feeble effort from the cushions. 


FORGIVENESS. 


151 

And. it was a strange face that was lifted to loot trpon the two 
men beside him, a face never again to be what it had been. Not 
only the expression, but every feature seemed changed. The dark 
eyes, though deeply sunk, yet looked larger, and had deeper in- 
tensity of colour, of meaning, of outlook. The once bronzed face 
was shrunken, and pale, and nervous-looking. A certain sad eager- 
ness was written upon the countenance, a certain sad remembrance ; 
it was the face of a man who had passed through his life’s crisis, 
and was yet all unaware of its full meaning, of the influence it was 
intended to have upon the days to be, 

‘You must forgive me,’ he said in answer to his father’s desire 
for knowledge of the days but just past. ‘I know the men ; one is 
not living, so I am told. The others shall be to me as if they had 
died also. , , , It cannot be otherwise, it cannot. They did wrong. 
They were mistaken, they were cruel — bitterly cruel and hard. 
But it is not for me to punish them, not for anyone belonging to 
me. Don’t say any more, don’t ask me to say any more. • . * I can 
say nothing but that.’ 

For a moment Squire Theyn could hardly sneak, so divided he 
was between emotions of varying nature. Disappointment was 
probably uppermost. 

‘ They’ll say it’s cowardice, nothing but rank cowardice I’ he 
exclaimed bitterly. 

Hartas smiled ; a wan, sad smile it was. 

*No, they won’t think that,’ he said faintly. 

After a little more uncomfortable and unprofitable discussion the 
Squire got up and went away. He would not quarrel with this 
newly-restored son of his, not willingly, yet it was an effort to 
subdue his anger, and Mrs. Kerne was feeling for him and with him 
as she seldom did. 

When Canon Godfrey and Hartas were left alone, the former 
asked a question he had been wishing to ask for some time. 

‘Would you mind telling me why you wish to shield these men — 
these ruffians, I may almost say ?’ 

‘ No ; I can tell you,’ Hartas replied, speaking with the new gentle- 
ness of manner that seemed so curiously natural to him already, as 
if some inner and better self had been set free from the outer. ‘ I 
can tell you, but surely you do not need that I should put it into 
words ? You can see for yourself that for her sake alone — Barbara’s 
— it would be better that the matter should drop at once and for 
ever. If I bring it to light, if I bring these men to justice, the 
cause of their deed must become even a commoner topic for con- 
versation than it is now. And how could I bear that, knowing how 
ill she would bear it ? , . . No ; help me once more, be the friend 
you have always been, even when I couldn’t see that you were my 
friend at all. And try to persuade my father to see the matter from 
my point of view. . . . He will thank you afterward : so shall I.’ 

The Canon thought for a moment ; then he lifted his kindly blue 
eyes to the face of the still suffering man before him. 


152 


IN EXCHANGE FOE A SOUL. 


‘I will do what you wish,’ he said, with an eager concession in his 
manner. ‘ And I believe after all that you are right ; I believe you 
are. It would do little good to bring these men to what is called 
justice — it might do harm. I do think you are right, that the affair, 
painful as it is, had better be allowed to die out of itself.’ 

‘ Better far ; and I thank you. . . . But now, how shall I put the 
question ? Have you nothing to tell me of her — of Barbara ?’ 

‘Not much — that is, not much that will gladden you in any way 
to hear. I can only say that the more I see of her, the more I dis- 
cern the true greatness, the true beauty of her character. She 
seems to be absolutely without any trace of selfishness, of self- 
seeking.’ 

‘ Have you seen her lately T 

‘I saw her yesterday ; the baby was baptized. Barbara, your 
sister, and myself were the sponsors. . , . Poor little mite that it 
is 1 What will be its future, I wonder ?’ 

‘ But Barbara ? . . . Has she got over it all — that terrible time ? 
Did she look like herself ?’ 

‘ To tell the truth she did not, not quite. She looks older, paler, 
thinner, as if she had gone through an illness. But what wonder ? 
And she is young enough to recover ; and I expect she will do so, 
by -and- by.’ 

‘ What ‘makes you say that ?’ Hartas asked, with the difficulty in 
his voice that comes of emotion. 

‘ Hope makes me say it,’ the Canon replied. Presently he added, 
‘ You have not forgotten that day on the scaur ? You remember 
what I said ?’ 

‘ Yes, I remember,* Hartas replied, with faint white lips, and un- 
hopeful tones ; ‘ perhaps it would be better if I did not.* 

‘ What makes you say that ? Of what are you thinking ?* 

‘ I am thinking of her, that it cannot be, that it can never be, 
that dream of mine. How shall I tell you all — all I have dis- 
covered ? Sorrow enlightens one. ... I believe, as you kindly told 
me you believed, that Barbara cares for me ; perhaps she may even 
care more than I know ; but there are things she cares for more. . . . 
I fancy ghe sees a certain honourableness in refusing to consent to a 
marriage that seems in her sight one of — what shall I say ? — mere 
difference of position seems so poor a ground, and I feel sure that 
it does not cover all her thought. To say the truth, I fear that to 
Barbara my sister Thorhilda represents all goodness, all refinement, 
all culture, all that she herself thinks highest and worthiest ; and 
therefore it is that her admiration is a sort of worship, a worship 
that counts self-sacrifice as the purest pleasure. I have expressed 
my thought badly, inadequately, but you will know what I mean. 
And this — this event — before I see Barbara I seem to know that 
it will make her less willing to yield than ever. And I will not 
urge her ; I will never again, if I can help it, put any pressure upon 
her. I seem to know now that it can never be, that dream of 
mine 1 • • • Yet how I care for her 1 Mow J care / . . . But for- 


BARBARA BURDAS AND HARTAS THEYN 153 


give me! I never meant to say all this. Forgive me, and don’t 
betray me !’ 

Hardly thinking of what he was doing under the pressure of 
emotion, the Canon rose to his feet and held out his hand as a sign 
of leave-taking. 

‘ I will not betray you,’ he said gently, and with effort ; ‘ but let 
me mention one thing that I had been thinking of : it seems to me 
that as a matter of common gratitude Barbara Burdas should be 
asked to come and see you. . . . She saved your life, remember.’ 

‘ She will not come,’ Hartas replied instantly, his fear overcoming 
his desire. 

‘ Do you think not ? . . • I imagine that she will, if I make a 
point of it.’ 

‘ Ah, if you put it so !’ Hartas said, turning his face away in dis- 
appointed sadness. ‘ She will not refuse you, but her coming under 
those conditions will be no help to me. ... I know her better now 
than I used to do. I almost understand her ; but she is above me, 
and consequently she sees beyond me. . . . She may come, I may 
see her, but we shall separate as we meet, as far apart, quite as far, 
or perhaps even farther.’ 

And even as Hartas predicted, so it came to pass. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

BARBARA BURDAS AND HARTAS THEYN. 

* The eyes smiled too, 

But ’twas as if remembering they had wept, 

And knowing they should some day weep again.* 

Hearing footsteps upon the garden path behind him — footsteps 
waited for, listened for long — Hartas turned with a crimson tide of 
emotion flushing ail his face. Two figures were coming towards 
him — Barbara Burdas and his sister Thorhilda. But for a second 
or two he hardly recognised the former, and the very strangeness 
about her enabled him to recover himself. Was this young yet 
stately-looking woman, dressed in quiet, simple mourning of no 
antiquated date, yet far enough removed from the fashionable — was 
this Barbara Burdas ? He had to assure himself by an effort. 

Considering the shortness of the time since the first appearance 
of Damian Aldenmede at Ulvstan Bight, certainly the change in 
Barbara Burdas was very great, and said much for her powers of 
adaptability — yet, nay, what a low word is that to use ! She had 
adapted herself to nothing. In some ways she had found her own, 
yet that but scantily, scarcely. She had much yet to find, though, 
to her credit be it said, she hardly knew even that. She only knew 
that as yet certain desires within her were all unfulfilled. 

All the way Barbara was being led step by step, not knowing 
whither she went, not knowing why she was led onward at all. 
That she should be accused of the vain and vulgar ambition of 


IS4 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


desiring social advancement did not occur to her, nor, for the 
honour of the humanity about her be it said, did it occur to others. 

She was not at all aware that when she advanced so tremulously 
to meet Hartas Theyn in Mrs. Kerne’s garden she was other than 
the Barbara Burdas she had always been — the change, so it seemed, 
was in him. 

The first few moments were only made endurable by the presence 
of Miss Theyn, who understood the difiiculty of this first meeting, 
and now, as always, had enough of sympathy to offer. If she felt 
any pain she was successful in hiding it. Turning to her brother, 
seeing his sad, white, unhopeful face, then looking upon Barbara, 
admiring the tall, fine figure of the girl, seeing how the dark, bronzed 
face w'as paled by intense thought, intense suffering, how the light 
of new perception was visible in the deep blue eyes — seeing these 
things, she could not but be surprised by the alteration she saw. 
She had not dreamed that a few short days, or weeks, or even 
months, could work such change in any human personality. 

There was a moment that might have been awkward but for 
Barbara’s adequate and straightforward courtesy. 

‘ You are better T she said, looking into the face that was 
watching hers so eagerly, so yearningly. 

She took the hand Hartas held out — a hand so white, so thin, so 
tremulous, that her heart ached to see it. 

‘Yes, I am all right now,’ he replied with pallid lips and some- 
what troubled tone. Then he added : ‘ It was good of you to come 
and see me.’ 

‘ The Canon wished it,* she said simply. 

‘ And you would do anything he wished ?’ 

‘ Yes, anything / He could never ask me to do aught I wouldn’t 
be glad to do.’ 

‘ That is high praise from you ?’ 

‘ I didn’t mean it for praise,’ Bab said, discerning instantly the 
unbefittingness of praise of hers bestowed upon one like Canon 
G-odf rey. ‘ I didn’t mean it for that / I only meant to say that 
I’d that regard for him that I’d never had for no one in my life 
afore, and, as I think, can never have for no one again.’ 

‘ Not for Mr. Aldenmede ?’ Hartas asked, wishing the word un- 
said so soon as it escaped him. 

‘ No, not even for him. He’s good ; but it’s not quite the same 
sort of goodness. . . . He’s different altogether.’ 

Hartas was not ill-pleased to hear this eulogy of one not only 
closely connected with himself, but well-disposed toward him ; 
and the change, the new power of perception visible in Barbara, 
was impressing him more at every turn of her every phrase. Her 
grammar might be defective, but the utterance of almost every 
word was pure and true, and for him the inflection of each tone 
had the charm, the winningness, that onlv love can lend. Yet his 
heart did not rise to the charm — rather did it sink, depressed, un- 
hopeful. 


BARBARA BURDAS AND HART AS THEYN. 155 

Quite nnperceived Miss Theyn had left these two together, and 
now they were walking slowly along under the belt of all but leaf- 
less trees that divided the wide garden from the paddock where 
Mrs. Kerne’s pony was grazing at his ease. The afternoon was 
warm and yellow and hazy ; a late rose or two leaned out from 
the garden beds as if craving notice for having bloomed in Novem- 
ber, and a very grove of hollyhocks stood in a corner, late, strag- 
gling, and with only a few half-developed flowers on the top of 
each tall stem. 

‘ Are they English flowers, those ?’ Barbara asked, touching a 
soft, pale pink hollyhock with her black cotton glove. ‘I was 
reading of some foreign flowers the other night in a book Mr, 
Aldenmede lent me, and I asked him about them afterward. The 
strangest flowers they are— orchids they call them. There’ll be 
some i’ this garden, I reckon ?’ 

‘ Don’t talk of things like that, Barbara — not now, not to-day,’ 
Martas pleaded, and there was something strangely touching in his 
pleading. All the old roughness — the almost rudeness — was gone, 
and in the place of these things there was a gentleness, a wistful- 
ness, a refinement, that had more power to move than Barbara was 
prepared to resist. 

* Don’t speak of those things,’ he begged. ‘ Have you nothing 
else to say to me ? You don’t know how I’ve been hoping that 
you had — hoping against hope. . . . Have you forgotten that you 
saved my life ? that but for you I shouldn’t have been here ?’ ‘ 

Barbara gently interrupted him. 

‘ You were drifting in,’ she said, lifting a face which had all the 
recollection of that strange time written on the features of it. 

‘ Perhaps ; but it must have been very slowly. And who can 
say that I should have lived to touch the land ? But let that pass, 
I know in my own mind that I owe my life to you ; and I am glad 
that I do. . . . I’ve heard it said that people always think kindly 
of anybody they’ve done a good turn to. . . . But I’m not going 
to take advantage of that. ... I know you would have done the 
same for anybody else.’ 

‘ So I should if I’d been moved in the same way,’ Bab replied 
quietly. 

‘ Still, I can never forget.’ 

‘ Nor can I.’ 

‘ No ; but it will not meai the same thing to you. I see that. 
, . . I think I saw it before, and I made up my mind not to weary 
you with the old entreaty. , . You know what I mean, Barbara 
— what is in my thoughts.’ 

‘ Yes ; I know, and you are n^/ht in not pressing it. It is wise 
and kind of you to have made up your mind not to do that.’ 

She spoke so calmly, with such quiet self-possession, that it was 
not possible for Hartas to discern how her heart was sinking with 
every word she uttered, sinking for the need of love, the return of 
that love she was being drawn to give so lavishly. Her very 


IN EXCHANGE EOR A SOUL. 


156 

strength, contrasted with Hartas Theyn’s present weakness, seemed 
a new reason for new and increasing love. Yet when did love ever 
stand in need of reason ? ‘ Because it was he ; becaus# it was L* 

That is the beginning and the end of love’s reasoning. 

Hartas did not reply for a while to Barbara’s seemingly cold 
speech. He could not, being chilled and hurt. At last he said 
simply, ‘ Thank you,’ but he said it in so weary a way, with lips so 
pallid and eyes so sad, that Barbara could not part from him thus. 

‘ Try to understand me,’ she said. ‘ I’m trying — trying to do 
what seems right ; and all the more I’m striving, because every- 
body seems so kind and good. Think of Canon Godfrey, of how 
he speaks to me, how he looks at me, and how he thinks for me. 
If I were the greatest lady in the land he could care no more. 
And then Miss Theyn, your sister. . . .’ 

‘Well, what of her ?’ Hartas interposed with a touch of the old 
hastiness. 

‘ Oh, I could say so much of her ! How can I begin ? She is 
so different,’ Barbara began enthusiastically. ‘ She is so very 
different from anybody else I have ever known or seen.’ 

‘ She’s at the root of all your hesitation — of all my sorrow,’ 
Hartas broke in again. 

Barbara thought for a moment, 

‘ That’s only true in one sense,’ she replied. ‘ It is because I 
know Miss Theyn, and see what your wife ought to be, that I 
cannot say the word you want me to say. From the very first hour 
I saw her I knew that she was the kind of lady you should have, 
that if any good were to come to you, any upliftin’ (forgive the 
plain speaking)^ you should marry some one as much above you as 
your sister is, instead of one so much below you as I am. Your 
father sees this ; he shows it in the very way he looks at me. And 
Mrs. Kerne knows it, and Mrs. Godfrey ; they can’t help but know. 
And they all feel, and one way or another they make me feel, that 
I am the one thing that stands in the way of your betterin’ your- 
self by marriage. Excuse the plain words — I’ve none better. But 
now think for a minute, how could I say that word you want me 
to say, an’ keep a shred of self-respect afterward ? I could not do 
it. But there ! . . . I’ve said overmuch. You’re none too strong 
yet. Won’t you go into that little summer-house and sit 
down ?’ 

‘ No ; I don’t want to sit down. I’m not tired — not with that 
sort of tiredness.’ 

Then presently Hartas stopped and turned, and took the girl’s 
hand in his, fixing his dark, sad eyes upon her lovely, yet much 
pained face. 

‘ I said I would make no plea,’ he began tremulously ; ‘ but I 
cannot, I cannot help it ! It is so terrible ! How shall I bear it ? 
How shall I face the future at all ? . . . Is that your last word ? 

. . . Would it make any difference if my sister herself came and 
asked you to be my wife T 


BARBARA BURDAS AND HARTAS THEYN, 137 


Barbara was nearly as pale as Hartas himself was. The conflict 
within her was passionately strong. 

‘ I cannot say that it wouldn’t make a difference,’ she replied. 
‘ I might yield, / might ; but I should always know that in one way 
or another she had been forced, overcome. , . . And no happiness 
could come of it, believe me — no happiness that could last ; none 
for you, none for me. . . . T cannot say all that’s in me. There’s a 
deal one can find no expression for ; and I think and feel so many 
things that I cannot say in words. . , . Sometimes I think of your 
sister’s marryin’, as they say she’s about to do, that son of Lady 
Meredith’s.’ 

‘ She’s not Lady Meredith,’ Hartas interrupted brusquely. 

‘ Isn’t she ? They always call her so over at the Howes. But 
anyhow, if your sister is to be her daughter, how would they like 
to meet me — me, a flither- picker off the scaur ? How would Mrs. 
Percival Meredith like to have to say to the grand people about 
her, “ This is my sister-in-law — this bait-gatherer.” . .' 

‘How much do you look like — like that this afternoon ?’ 

Barbara blushed, for once a little self-consciously. 

‘ It’s not looks. I am that — just that. And oh, how could you 
ever dream that foolish dream, knowing what you did know, even 
then ! I didn’t know ! I wish I had known — I wish I had. But 
1 didn’t. . . . And now there’s only one thing,’ Barbara continued, 
lifting a pathetic, beseeching face to the sad eyes that were 
watching her. ‘ There’s only one thing left for us. Can it be ? 
Will you let it be ? Will you be my friend ?’ 

^ Friend, in ihsit sense? never T Hartas replied with vehe- 
mence. ‘ It couldn’t be — it could never be I Friends ! you and 
me ! Think of the torture of it I’ 

‘ Torture !’ Barbara repeated in surprise. ‘ Torture ! I was 
thinking of it as bein’ only a happiness. . . . You don’t know what 
it would be to me. I’m so lone at times, so desperate lone. ... I’d 
not weary you, not if I knew ’.’ 

Her very pleading, the pathos of it, the ‘ sweet reasonableness,’ 
were more than Hartas could bear just then. 

‘ It cannot be,’ he said again. ‘ I could never stand it ; no, never. 
If there’s nothing else left we’d better part ! . . .’ 

‘ Well, then, let us part kindly,’ Barbara said, speaking with in- 
creased effort. ‘ Then if by chance we have to meet anywhere, 
we’d meet without more — more pain than need be.’ 

The sun had gone down cold and wan behind the leafless ash- 
trees ; a damp- misty air was coming over the fields, over the 
brown moor neyond. Hartas shivered and turned away, white and 
desponding. 

‘ Pain ! There’s nought else but pain nowhere. The world’s full of 
pain. . . . I wish — I wish you had left me to drift on to death in peace !’ 

Barbara, made no reply. They were near the little gate that led 
out into the lane ; and half unconciously their pace grew slower 
and slower. It was Hartas who broke the silence at last. 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


IS8 

‘ Forgive me ; I pray you to forgive me,’ he said in a tone and 
manner quite unlike his own. *I did not mean that — no, God 
knows I did not ; and He alone knows what my gratitude is. . . . 

I must be miserably weak, for I meant all to be so very different 
to-day. ... It was that overcame me— the idea of parting. How 
can 1 bear it ? And you seemed to take it so lightly, so easily.’ 

They were standing by the gate now, facing each other. The 
last moment was near. Barbara held out her hand, and on her 
face was the betrayal that few can see and misunderstand. 

‘ Did you suppose that I could add my pain to yours T she asked, 
suppressing the deep undertone of feeling that struggled below. 

‘ Then it is pain to you ?’ 

* Look in my face, and see,’ Barbara replied, quite unconsciously 
quoting from one of the most beautiful and touching poems in the 
English language. 

‘ Then if it be so — if I may know even that — I think I can bear 
— I think I can. . . . Yet — yet it is hard !’ 

A moment or two longer they stood there in the deepening 
twilight, hand in hand, heart beating to heart, loving, suffering, 
silent. 

Each feared to add to the other’s sorrow by uttering the final last 
word. The after-glow had faded from the sky ; darkness was 
beginning to overspread the earth with all the strange stillness that^ 
darkness brings. 

‘ I must go,’ Barbara said at last, thinking of the little ones at 
home — e'^pecially of the baby, who now sometimes seemed the 
best loved of them all, and certainly needed most of her loving 
attention. 

‘ I must go. . . . And in spite of what you said, I’ll look to you 
when I want a friend.’ 

‘ Come to me when you want friendliness. . • o I’d always do 
aught I could, you’d know that.’ 

* But you won’t be all a friend might be to me T 

‘ No. ... It must be more, or less. And you’ve said it is to be 
less.’ 

‘ Good-night, then. . . . You’ll understand me better some day.’ 

‘ I think I shall,’ Hartas replied quietly, sadly, yet with deep 
significance in his tone. ‘ I will tliink^ even yet^ that there will come 
a time for better understanding' 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE BANDS OP FATE TWINE CLOSER AND YET CLOSER. 

‘ Seldom comes the moment \ 

In life, which is indeed sublime and weighty 
To make a great decision possible.’ 

Coleridge. 

While all these things had been happening in the Bight down below, 
life had not been standing still on the higher ground. At last 


THE BANDS OF FATE TWINE CLOSER. 159 

Damian Aldenmede had become acquainted with Percival Meredith 
— at last he had come to know that everywhere it was bei ug said 
that Mr. Meredith was engaged, or ‘all but engaged/ to Miss 
Theyn. He had felt a momentary stun, then disbelief had 
followed. When he came to know Mr. Percival Meredith but a 
little more intimately, his disbelief had become tinged with scorn. 
Thorhilda Theyn, a pure, noble-minded, high-toned woman to 
marry a man like that ! But there thought paused awhile ; the 
artist was not the man to discolour his own soul by even a 
momentary dwelling upon the imperfections of another. Having 
spent one evening in the society of Mr. Percival Meredith, he felt 
no more inclination to disturb himself. That he should make a 
friend of such a man being an utter impossibility, was it not a 
thousand times more impossible that Miss Theyn should accept 
him for her husband, her companion, her friend, her guide for life ? 
Ah ! why trouble himself for a second with the gossip of one 
village, or of two ? And the more he thought the more certainly 
he convinced himself. Seeing in imagination, in memory, those 
pure, far-seeing, and far-seeking gray eyes looking into his, betray- 
ing all their depth of tenderness, all their assurance of strength, 
then turning to that other face, those other eyes with all their dis- 
closures of selfishness, of narrowness, of other things to which he 
put no name — how could he trouble himself any further ? And 
yet the trouble did not quite die down. 

It might have gone lower than it did but for a brief conversation 
he had had with Gertrude Douglas, whom he had met one morn- 
ing, by untoward accident, on the promenade. Miss Douglas was 
looking very beautiful, fe^eling full of power — the power that comes 
of youth, of beauty, of health, of the consciousness of social 
adequateness. 

‘ Ah, is it yoUj is it really you f she exclaimed in her wonderfully 
sweet, and liquid and musical voice. Her words, her pretty laugh, 
came like a rippling rain of music. ‘How unusual it is to see 
you on the promenade I I thj^ught you despised all such fri- 
volities 

‘ No ; I trust that contempt is not much in my way.’ 

‘ Oh, I don’t know about that !’ Miss Douglas exclaimed, aU 
unaware that she was treading upon the thinnest ice. ‘ I thought 
you looked dreadfully scornful at the Hartoft’s the other evening — 
especially when you looked at poor Mr. Meredith !’ 

Then Gertrude laughed a little, and blushed, and let her long 
dark eyelashes droop over her unperceptive eyes in a very effective 
way. 

No answer coming — none being possible to Damian Aldenmede— 
she went on again, quite as unconsciously as before. 

‘ Of course I didn’t wonder ; nobody who knew as much as I 
know could have wondered. ... But don’t be too much cast down ; 
it isn’t a settled thing yet. . . . However, I suppose it will be soon. 
There is to be another grand dinner-party at the Bectory on the 


i6o IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 

22nd, and I expect it will be announced that evening. . . . You will 
be there, of course T 

‘ No ; I shall not,* Aldenmede replied, turning away with the 
scantiest courtesy, and not able at that moment to weigh all the 
contradictions and insinuations that he had heard in their proper 
balance. Entering his lodging a few minutes later, and finding the 
invitation to the dinner-party Miss Douglas had spoken of lying 
on his writing-table, he could have groaned aloud for the folly that 
had led him to declare his intention so prematurely. Yet the 
strain of perverseness that is in every nervous man or woman 
would not permit him to accept the pleasure now — for pleasure it 
would have been, however mingled with pain. He had pain 
enough as it was ; every recollection of the past, every thought of 
the future, had its own separate suffering. Even his face grew 
crimson, remembering that moment in the coastguardsman’s cottage, 
when he had at least betrayed himself to himself, and hoped — in a 
certain sense — that he also had betrayed the truth to her. Yet no 
sign had been given to him — or if any, then only such as must for ever 
forbid his hoping. He had watched ; he had sought her presence ; 
he had refrained from seeking it : yet by no effort could he extract 
any sign. The least response to his advances, the least seeming 
acceptance of his evident desire for — for friendship, to put it at its 
lowest ; the smallest sign of any hint would have given him hope. 
But in his worst moments he could do this justice to Miss Theyn— 
that she had not falsely allured him. 

* ^ * # ♦ « 

And meantime, how was it with Miss Theyn herself ? Not well. 
None who knew could make answer that it was well with her. To 
be drawn by all that is best and purest within you and about you 
on an upward road, yet to know and feel yourself gradually 
gliding downward, can never produce aught save an absolute 
misery. Ignore that misery how you will, call it by what name you 
will, the thing remains the same, as sooner or later you must 
know. 

In excuse for her only this may be said, that she had not divined 
the full depth of the feeling Damian Aldenmede already had for 
her. Half unknowingly, yet only half, she had checked the advance 
he would have made ; she had dreaded his coming farther, nearer, 
even while she had hoped that he would insist upon coming. There 
was his defect. He should have treated as straws all that stood in 
the way of the end he desired. 

In excuse for him there was this— in his former life he had 
loved, he had been betrayed, and he had suffered. What wonder, 
then, that he did not rise lightly, not gladly, to the new hope that 
was before him ? How could he even know with any sureness that 
he might dare to hope ? 

Thorhilda was quite aware of the fact that she had not given 
him one particle of encouragement, yet there were moments when 
*ihe felt more than half inclined to blame him for doubt, for vacil- 


THE BANDS OF FATE TWINE CLOSER. i6i 


lation ; and these moments came usually when she was feeling with 
a dread akin to terror that her time for vacillation was now grow- 
ing perilously short. Day by day she discerned more clearly in the 
manner of almost everyone about her — her Aunt Milicent, Mrs. 
Meredith, Percival himself — that her decision, one way or the 
other, must be made soon — her binding, irrevocable decision. 

Yet, despite this previous sense of preparation, the moment 
came suddenly. She felt, she hardly knew how, that a net had 
been drawn about her. 

For days past there had been a sort of uncomfortable electricity 
in the aif. The ostensible cause of this was a dinner-party to be 
given at Yarburgh Rectory on the 22nd of November. ’ It was to 
be a large party, almost unprecedentedly large ; many of the guests 
were to come from afar, many to stay all night. 

‘ It is due to Percy as well as to you, dear, to make an occasion 
of it,’ Mrs. Grodfrey had said gently. 

And Thorhilda, understanding in a strange, surprised sort of way, 
had made no reply save such ls was conveyed by a hot, sudden 
blush, a pained glance, and a hast y retirement to her own room. . . . 
More than ever Mrs. Godfrey w{.s pleased with her own little 
diplomacies. 

It was on that same evening that Percival Meredith came in 
quite accidentally. Miss Theyn, altogether unsuspicious, had been 
persuaded by her aunt to dress a little earlier than usual, and had 
come down to find Mr. Meredith there in the drawing-room alone. 
There was no lamplight as yet, only the bright cheerful glow of 
the fire, the ruddy warmth lighting up even the farthest corners of 
the wide artistically- decorated room. 

For a second Thorhilda showed her embarrassment ; then she 
came forward with a dignity, a self-possession that Percival Mere- 
dith admired even while feeling almost overpowered by it. It was 
very natural that there should be a moment’s pause between the 
two ; and it would have been difficult to say which was the first to 
recover. 

It was Percival Meredith who spoke first. 

‘ It may seem a crude thing to say, perhaps almost cruel,^ he 
began, in tones not free from tremulousness, ‘ but do you know I 
am almost glad that the time before us is so brief. We have only 
a few minutes, but surely, since we understand each other so well, 
have understood each other so long, one minute might be enough. 
... I have so little to say that you do not know. It has all been 
said so often, so long ago . . . and — and do admit it, Hilda dear, I 
have been so patient. ... I won’t even yet say that my patience 
has come to an end ; it could never do that while there was any 
hope at all. ... But surely you won’t strain it any longer ! I have 
insisted that no pressure should be put upon you by others ; I have 
demanded that from your aunt and from my mother ceaselessly. I 
have entreated them to let me have my own way : assuring them 
that I understood you better than they could do. . . .You will 

U 


i 62 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


justify my speaking so strongly, so emphatically — I know j^ou will. 
The love I have for you in my own heart tells me that you will do 
that. ... I don't yet feel elated in any way, still less triumphant : 
do you know, it seems to me as if I could never for a moment feel 
any real elation in the matter. I must always, however happy I 
may be, still feel subdued in my happiness, I may almost say 
humiliated, because of my unworthiness. . . . Don’t think that I 
am speaking untruly, or exaggerating what I feel ; at least tell me 
that you have no thought of that kind.’ 

‘ I have not,’ Thorhilda replied, speaking truly. 

And in that moment she had no reason for doubting anything 
that Mr. Meredith had said. Doubt, suspicion, was not natural to 
her at any time ; and in this moment of perturbation it was not 
likely that she should suddenly put on or acquire such undesirable 
qualities as these. 

Yet she could not, even now, say the word that was asked of her. 
The timepiece on the mantelshelf pointed to three minutes to seven. 
Her uncle was always punctual, only putting down the Bible or 
Prayer-book he held in his hand when the last moment came. This 
both Thorhilda and Percival Meredith knew. 

‘ Then if you have no doubt of me,’ Percival urged, coming 
nearer to her, taking her hand in a warm loving grasp, ‘ if you do 
not doubt me, if you do not doubt my love, what can hinder you 
from saying the one word I want ?’ 

There was a footstep on the stair, a bell , ringing in the hall ; 
then the door opened behind them, and Redshaw entered with the 
lamp. 

‘ I will write to you — I will write to-night,’ Thorhilda said in a 
hurried whisper as Mrs. Godfrey entered the room by the further 
door. 

^And your letter will contain a definite answer V Percival Meredith 
urged in tones no less fervid than her own. 

‘ Yes, yes.’ 

‘ You will say yes or no; please^ p'omise me this /’ 

Before Thorhilda could reply, Mrs. Godfrey was there between 
them, her purple satin gown with all its ribbons and laces rustling 
impressively; a hand was held out in congratulation to each, her 
eyes were bright with ready sympathetic tears. 

‘ It is settled ; it is all settled and decided I’ she began, almost 
sobbing in her emotion. 

Thorhilda had no heart to undeceive her ; nay, now she had no 
desire. It would be decided so soon, and surely, surely, it must be 
as her Aunt Milicent was thinking. 

Very naturally Percival Meredith had no wish to interpose. He 
felt that the chain was being tightened precisely in the direction he 
wished. And there was good advice in the old proverb, ‘ Let well 
alone.’ 


A NIGHT OF QUESTIONING. 


163 


CHAPTER XL. 

A NIGHT OF QESTIONING. 

The more insight a man acquires into human nature, the more it 
seems possible to him that a human life may be lived from the 
cradle to the grave without once even for one whole hour having 
been seriously brought face to face with any serious human 
problem. 

Thorhilda Theyn imagined that she had faced many problems, 
and, as we have seen, her life was no thoughtless, careless life. Her 
character had always been a more or less perplexing and contradic- 
tory one. Her uncle Godfrey, discerning the inconsistencies of her 
temperament while she was yet quite young, had done his utmost 
to bring about certain changes, certain developments which should 
tend to a greater harmony, and his efforts had been by no means 
unavailing. The very difficulty he had had, the mere fact that he 
had watched over so many struggles, noted so many small conquests, 
witnessed the growth of such a sweet affectionateness, the dawning 
and increasing of an intellect so clear, so full of fine perception, the 
strengthening of all impulses towards things good and right and 
pure and true, the very fact that it had been his duty, his pleasure, 
thus to watch over he^, to endeavour to influence her, had drawn 
the bond of affectionate relationship closer and closer between 
them. No father or daughter could have been nearer to each other, 
or dearer. Yet the Canon had never allowed his tenderness to blind 
him. He knew of the struggle that was going on now ; it may be 
that he understood its true nature better than Thorhilda herself 
did. And if he said but little, he prayed the more, not dreaming 
how his prayer was to be answered. 

Percival Meredith stayed to dinner that evening, declaring that 
he had not intended it, in proof of which he glanced towards his 
morning-coat ; and when, after dinner, Thorhilda and her aunt 
entered the drawing-room together, arm-in-arm, they found Ger- 
trude Douglas there — a thing that often happened— she was always 
made welcome. 

‘ It must be so dreadfully dull for her at home,’ Mrs. Godfrey 
would remark to her husband. ‘ And with all her talent for soci- 
ability, it seems such a pity that she should be buried night 
after night the winter through in that most dingy of little 
parlours.’ 

‘ But the father and mother I’ the Canon said suggestively. 

‘ Ah, they have lived their life ! Gertrude is not, unhappily, 
very young ; but all her life, her true life, is yet to live. . . . Oh, I 
think of her often ! There is no one in all this neighbourhood 
suitable for her ; and when Thorhilda is happily settled I shall cer- 
tainly try to do something for Gertrude — take her to some southern 
watering-place for a couple of months, or even go abroad with her. 
, , , There is no one else to do anything to help her ; and if she was 

11—2 


i64 


IN EXCHANGE FOE A SOUL. 


as attractive as Circe herself, she could not round the chances of 

her life in a neighbourhood like this And she is so clever, so 

charming, so amiable — oh I I must turn my attention to her when 
this is over.’ 

It was not often that Canon Godfrey said a severe thing, or 
aught that had even the shadow of severity about it. But his eyes 
were not closed. 

‘I have no wish to interfere for one moment with one kindly 
intention of yours, my dear Milicent,’ he replied ; ‘ but I have a# 
firm impression that Miss Douglas is quite equal to taking care of 
herself. It seems to me even probable that if she had been less 
evidently equal, less effort had been needed on the part of her 
friends. . . , Most men like to do what I did myself — to discover 
for themselves the goodness, the truth, the real beauty of character 
of the woman they would choose for their wife. . . . Nothing dis- 
tresses me so much as to think of effort being made, even of the 
slightest, to interfere with absolute freedom of choice — if, indeed, 
that is the right word — but it is not. True men, true women have 
no choice in the matter. It is almost a vulgarism in these days to 
say that marriages are made in heaven ; my feeling certainly is this, 
that the happiest and highest marriages are not made at all — they 
are ihe result of most inevitable laws. One feels that this had to 
be ; this, and no other.’ 

‘ Ah, well ! you are a little Quixotic, dear ; you always were 
in such matters as these — not that I have thought any the less of 
you for that.’ 

The Canon understood Miss Douglas better than his wife did ; 
and yet even he did not comprehend her shallow nature to its last 
widening ring. On this evening she was a little perturbed by 
something that had happened at home ; and her perturbation took 
the form it often did, making itself evident in a restless, glittering, 
fascinating excitement of word and manner. For an hour or so 
after the two gentlemen had come back to the drawing-room she 
took the lead in conversation, and her uncertainly- directed effort 
was not unsuccessful. Part of the time she walked up and down 
the room, declaring herself utterly unable to sit still. 

‘ I know what you must be thinking of me,’ she said laughingly, 
as she turned once more, her rose-coloured dress shining as she 
came nearer the lamp, the large and fine outlines of her figure 
showing to more and more advantage. ‘ I know what you must be 
thinking. I once read a novel, years ago — it seemed to me stupid and 
antiquated even then ; now I believe that it, and the set it belongs to, 
are all the fashion among people of culture. I haven’t any culture, 

I never had, and th-erefore I don’t admire “ Pride and Prejudice,” 
nor any other of Miss Austen’s novels. Yet I will say this — you 
can’t forget them ! Just now myself reminded myself of a certain 
scene : A young lady, a Miss Bingiey, is walking about a drawing- 
room one evening, and the gentleman to whom her attentions are 
directed perceives that she has a good figure, and has taken this 


A NIGHT OF QUESTIONING. 165 

method of displaying it. I never get up to walk about for five 
minutes without thinking of that scene.’ 

‘ A proof of the graphic forcefulness of Miss Austen’s writing/ 
Canon Godfrey interposed. 

‘And yet, Uncle Hugh,’ Thorhilda replied, ‘with the exception 
of the characters of Emma Woodhouse and Anne Elliot, there are 
not many characters one would care to choose as patterns in life ; 
and Emma is as charming by reason of her faults as of her virtues. 
The whole atmosphere of Miss Austen’s novels is full of a charm, 
all her own ; yet surely it is not so very elevating, not so very full 
of incentive to live and move by the highest standard of all. For 
instance, everyone in marrying, or, in giving in marriarge, thinks 
first of a decent settlement.’ 

‘ That is precisely why and where I can admire her novels,’ Ger- 
trude Douglas broke in, cutting in two the very sentence in which 
Thorhilda had meant to explain something of her own ideal — per- 
haps to the benefit of more than one listener present there. 

‘ That characteristic of her books would alone be sufficient to 
win me to her side,’ Miss Douglas declared, with an openness of re- 
velation meant to be enchanting, but which was more or less of a 
shock to at least one listener. ‘ It is the merest hypocrisy to de- 
clare that poverty may be preferable to wealth, and we all of us 
know it — that is, all of us to whom the word “ poverty ” brings 
any meaning whatever. But what do you know of it, Thorda 
dear ? What can you ever know ? . . . I don’t want to speak of 
myself — it is not good taste, I am aware. . . . But in all your life 
you have never suffered so much as I have done this week because 
one of my father s two farms is unlet and he cannot find a tenpmt.’ 

And then even Miss Douglas’s fine powers of self-sustenance 
gave way in a slight measure. She still continued to walk to and 
fro between the lamplight and the shade ; but only those who 
watched her closely could see the tears that heightened the lustre 
of her bright eyes, the quivering that deepened the pathos of her 
beautiful mouth, 

‘ I know you are friends, all of you,’ she continued by-and-by, 
with most pathetic tones in her liquid and musical voice. ‘ If you 
had not been, I could not have spoken so. . . And I have said 

nothing — nothing of all that I might have said, of all that even 
ibis seemingly slight matter means to me. ... I would not have 
spoken at all but for your sake, Thorda dear, that you might feel 
to the full how happy you are, what splendid reasons you have for 
being happy !’ 

Tiioi hi.da was sitting upon the sofa by her aunt’s side ; she was 
s'^on overcome by this unusual display of bmotion. Percival 
Meredith, sitting opposite to her, staring into the glowing fire, 
seemed lost in a very mist of perplexity. He hardly dared to lift 
his eyes to the tearful face of Miss Douglas ; yet, for the first time, 
hei* voice sounded strangely winning in his ears, strangely charged 
with some new spell of enchantment. Was this indeed the voice 


JN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUU 


i66 

he had listened to so often? Were these the tones he had heard 
with such indifference ? 

There were no signs of any further breaking down on the part 
of Miss Douglas ; yet by-and-by Thorhilda drew her away to her 
own room, where a cheery fire was burning, with an easy-chair 
pushed forward to the fender, a pale blue dressing-gown laid ready, 
with fur-lined slippers, cashmere shawl, and tiny gipsy-table with 
its tray of lovely china all prepared for the last cup of hot choco- 
late. Brushes were spread out upon the toilette-table, hot water 
ready in the cans, a maid was waiting in the dressing-room that 
was between Thorhilda’s room and the one occupied by Miss 
Douglas. 

Gertrude Douglas understood all that was to be decided that 
night to the full— perhaps even better than Miss Theyn herself 
understood. 

Was it only during the last few hours that a new and strange 
idea had taken possession of Gertrude’s mind and heart ? 

Had the uplifted face, the admiring eyes, the expression of deep 
sympathy she had discerned while watching Percival Meredith 
aught to do with the attitude she displayed now ? Thorhilda was 
instantly aware of change. 

‘ Do think of it all, dear — do think seriously,’ Miss Douglas 
begged, seating herself in the depth of the easiest of easy-chairs, 
and sinking back exhausted with the contending emotions of the 
evening. ‘ Do think ! It is not a matter of life and death, but it 
is all-important so far as life is concerned. Have courage, dear. If 
you cannot love him as you feel you ought to love your future hus- 
band, do dare to say so I . . . And if there should be anyone else — I 
don’t mean anyone in particular — but if there should be, do not let 
anything that I have said come between you. After all, wealth or 
poverty, what is it ? It is only for this life, dear !’ 

For almost the first time the ring of — not falseness, but of the . 
want of certain coherent sincerity, smote upon the heart and brain 
of Thorhilda as an outward blow had done. She raised her head 
from Miss Douglas’s knee, said ‘ good-night ’ in a kind of stupor, 
and went to her own room, dispensing with the services of her 
maid for that night. 

For awhile she sat alone, not caring to take off even the few 
ornaments she had worn, but resting her wearied head upon the 
sofa before the fire. 

‘ Lonely 1’ she said, in the half -audible whisper that people use 
who are roused by deep emotion. ‘ Lonely I How anyone might 
smile to hear me utter the word 1 The one intimate friend with 
which circumstance has provided me is in the next room ; the two 
kindest guardians that ever woman had are in the room below; 
and the one man whom I know does love me greatly is not half a 
dozen miles away. . . . Yet, yet^ I am as lonely as the loneliest 
woman in the world !’ 

Presently she rose to her feet, and began walking up and down 


A NIGHT OF QUESTIONING. 167 

the room ; and when her eye caught sight of her writing-table, the 
paper lying ready, the pens in admired disorder, everything seem- 
ing to await that one word she had promised to write, she felt im- 
pelled all at once to a new level of thought and emotion. 

. Was it possible that she had yet a decision to make ? No, that 
could not be ! ... Yet she might still unmake one — one made 
rather by others than by herself. 

It was a terrible hour. 

A more passionately-loving woman, or one aroused to a deeper 
depth of passionate human loving, had known no such inner 
contention. 

She had only been partially aware of the betrayal of which 
Damian Aldenmede had been guilty that night in the coastguards- 
man’s cottage, and it was not in her nature to dwell upon an 
accidental word wrung from a man by the sight of a woman^s 
suffering. 

She had never at any time dwelt much upon the idea that the 
artist might care for her, nor was she a woman to linger in long 
reverie over such a possibility. She had been drawn to him — 
drawn by his superiority over every other man she had met — and 
she had been fully aware of the fact that he had reciprocated to the 
full whatever feeling of mere admiration she had given to him. 
Beyond that she had not consciously permitted her thought, her 
emotion to stray. How far she might be governed by things of 
which she was largely unconscious she could not know. We none 
of us know. We are influenced by motives we have never sus- 
pected, led by hopes we have never grasped, deluded by visions 
into which we have never looked. So it is that men find them- 
selves on the edge of precipices from which they start back aghast, 
like travellers coming to the cliff-top in the thick white mist of 
autumn evenings. It is well for the traveller who has firm and 
safe land behind him to retreat upon. 

All complications, all pressures not witstanding, Thorhilda Theyn 
knew that up to this hour safety was hers. Yet she did not say to 
herself, as she might have done, that by one strong wrench she 
might break every strand of the fine network of circumstance by 
which she was enmeshed. 

Of a dozen people knowing the truth as to the battle she fought 
alone in her own room that night, it is possible that while six 
might have blamed her, the other six would certainly have been 
found sad for pity. 

It must be remembered that she was still young. Where is the 
man or woman who has passed from childhood to middle age with- 
out making some grievous mistakes ? Who has known nothing of 
love’s treachery ? — of the betrayal of that which ‘ was not love at 
all,’ but yet came with all fair and plausible seeming and promise 
of love? 

And Thorhilda Theyn was not only young. Notwithstanding a 
certain adequate intellectual development, she was still simply and 


i68 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


singularly youthful in many ways ; almost impossibly youthful. 
In the matter of love, and all love’s mystic meaning, she was little 
more than a child 

The little she did know she had been told, and that not ton 
wisely. Had she known the truth with regard to herself thai 
night, she would have known that the real love of her heart had 
yet to be truly awakened. 

Yet so long, so persistently had her aunt Milicent, whom she 
trusted to the uttermost, seemed to consider her love for Percival 
Meredith a settled thing, that hardly one thought of question on 
this head seemed to rise up to confront her. And it was not only 
Mrs. Godfrey who had done this grievous thing ; Mrs. Meredith 
had added her share of the weight of pressure ; Gertrude Douglas 
— until to-night — had added hers. And of late the Canon had 
been all but silent — silent with a silence that was one day to be hi.- 
bitterest memory. 

So it was that she was left alone to fight with her worst enemy, 
herself ; to see on one hand the luxury, the ease, the freedom from 
care, the presence of every desirable thing that had come to seem 
needful to her life. There was no need for imagination here. 
She saw this strong temptation in its highest light, clearly, 
distinctly. 

And why should she look upon it as a temptation at all ? why 
not accept all that was offered to her in the spirit in which every- 
one who surrounded her was expecting her to accept it— as a 
natural result, a natural consequence ? 

In this question and its answer lay all her difficulty. There was 
only one answer ; and she returned it to herself, shrinking from its 
full meaning. 

‘ I have not been able to accept the offer of Percival Meredith’s 
hand at once, and without hesitation, because I know that in 
marrying I should wish to feel that my husband was the best man 
I had ever seen ; the highest-souled I had ever known. I appre- 
ciate Mrs. Browning’s utterance on this head to the full : 

‘ “ Unless you can think when the song is done, 

No other is soft in the rhythm ; 

Unless you can feel when kft by ow«, 

That all men else go with him. 

Unless you can know when upraised by his breath 
That your beauty itself wants proving ; 

Unless you can swear, ‘ For life, for death I* 

Oh, fear to call it loving.”. 

‘ Is it thus with me ? It is not. But they say, they all say, that 
this is only natural, that that deeper, intenser love will come. 
Perhaps it might have done, perhaps it might, if I had never seen 
any other man, any higher, nobler, greater. And I believe, I 
admit it to myself now and here, that that other is as much greater 
in soul as he is poorer in means. As to whether he cares for me or 
not, with that caring, I do not know, I only dream. Certainly it is 


A NIGHT OF QUESTIONING. 169 

nothing but a dream, and one that, perhaps, could never be realized. 
Of Percival’s love I am very sure. And I mean to live as truly as 
I can, as nobly*; but if I fail, shall I not remember ? Shall I not 
see a strong, spiritual face looking into mine, looking sadly, re- 
proachfully, the face of one who would have led me onward and 
upward, step by step ?’ 

Then for awhile thought itself seemed to pause ; and the visions 
that came were not such as to fix themselves on the mind by 
means of formed words and phrases. And each vision seemed to 
be twofold, to disclose now this side, now that. At last quite sud- 
denly, as day began to break, worn and wearied with the night’s 
perplexity, Thorhilda threw herself on the sofa by her writing- 
table and began to write. 

‘ I will think no more, I will hesitate no more,’ she said to herself 
in some agitation. ‘ I will give my promise to Percival Meredith, 
and ,my life to God. . , , May He do with me as He will.’ 

The note was written in the gray dawn ; then Miss Theyn slept 
awhile, to be awakened by a very hurricane of wind and rain 
dashing upon her casement ; and even then it seemed as if at the 
foot of the far-off cliffs she could hear the sounding of the sleep- 
less melancholy sea. 

‘ Not the sort of morning one would have chosen to make one’s 
first greeting to “ a plighted bride,” isn’t that the proper phrase, 
dear ?’ her aunt Milicent said an hour or two later when Thorda 
went down. The cheeriest and warmest of coal fires was burning 
in the wide grate, lighting up the dining-room with a ruddy 
glow. Mrs. Godfrey kissed the girl with a warm and motherly 
kiss, on either cheek ; the Canon’s lips were pressed tenderly to 
her forehead ; and he held her hand awhile, not caring to look 
much into the face he had read at the first glance. 

Presently a bell was rung, the servants came in, and sat down 
quietly in their places, and the Canon opened his Bible and read : 

* The light of the body is the eye : if, therefore, thine eye be single, thy 
whole body shall be full of light. 

‘ No man can serve two masters : for either he will hate the one, and love 
the other ; or else he will hold to the one and despise the other. Ye cannot 
serve God and mammon. 

‘ Therefore I say unto you. Take no thought for your life, what ye shall 
eat, or what ye shall drink ; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is 
not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment ? 

^ # # # # 

‘ Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and His righteonwiess ; and all these 
things shall be added unto you,* 


170 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


CHAPTER XLL 

* LATE, LATE, SO LATE I’ 

• At peace 1 ay, the peace of the ocean, 

When past is the storm when we foundered* 

And eager and breathless the morning 
Looks over the waste.’ 

W. W. Story. 

A DINNER-PARTY of eight-and- twenty people must always mean 
the mingling of some very different, not to say discordant, ele- 
ments ; and the party given in honour of Miss Theyn’s engage- 
ment to Mr. Percival Meredith could be no exception to this in- 
teresting rule. 

The scene — taking it merely as a scene — was an unusually brilliant 
one. Certainly — 

* The tabours played their best, 

Lamps above and laughs below.* 

And perhaps some present there might afterward have finished the 
quotation — 

• “Love me” sounded like a jest. 

Fit for yes, or fit for no.’ 

But Miss Theyn could not be numbered among them. Long* after- 
ward it was remarked that she had never looked more beautiful, 
more winning, more touchiug, more sad. Many there did not see 
the sadness. Her quietude was taken for maiden modesty ; her 
wistful, wondering look for the new tenderness always born of 
love. She moved about the rooms like a very embodiment of 
grace and beauty, of sweetness, and almost pathetic gentleness. 
Mr. Egerton (‘ the Canon’s curate,’ as Mrs. Kerne was careful 
always to describe him), watching Miss Theyn on this eventful 
evening, knew that he had never before seen such outward and 
visible signs of the inward and beautiful grace of humility. It 
was not only the down-dropt eyes, the restrained smile, the new 
paleness ; but something in her smile, her grace, her attitude, be- 
trayed to him that all this demonstration of gaiety and festivity, 
so well and kindly intended, so far as the Canon and his wife were 
concerned, was not exactly in accord with the inward mood of her 
for whom it was mainly meant. Mr. Egerton could not quite un- 
derstand his own feeling. Where all should have been joy, glad- 
ness, congratulation, he was moved, all unaware of any reason, to 
something that was curiously like pity, strangely akin to com- 
passion. And inevitably Miss Theyn discerned how it was with 
him, and returned the pressure of his hand with a gentle, meaning 
warmth that he could not forget. Afterward — long, long after- 
ward he understood, 

‘ Everybody was there I’ Mrs. Kerne said, describing the evening 
to a friend of hers on the following day, ‘ An’ it was the prettiest 


^LATE, LATE, SO LATE f 


171 

dinner-party I ever was at. The dresses was splendid — they really 
was. My niece Thorhilda wore a cream satin, very plain, very 
simply made, but very good. It was like an old brocade for that ; 
it would ha^ stood by itself splendid. An’ she’d some magnificent 
old lace all about it, real Brussels, ’at had belonged to Mrs. God- 
frey’s mother ; she was a cousin of the Duke of St. Dunstan’s ; that 
was how the father, old Chalgrove, got the living ; and how it came 
to pass ’at the Duke an’ Duchess took such notice of them all. 
Why, I don’t believe ’at the eddication o’ that family o’ girls ever 
cost the father sixpence. . . . An’ so far so good ; but they needn’t 
hold their heads quite so high as they do ; though I must say ’at I 
consider Mrs. Godfrey a real lady down to the toes of her shoes. 
An’ that’s more nor I’d ever say for Averil Chalgrove.’ 

^ But you don’t mean to say that she was there ?’ inquired Mrs. 
Kerne’s interlocutor, who was none other than Mrs. Monk-Fry ston, 
the wife of the principal lawyer of Market Yarburgh. 

‘ There ! my dear ; yes, and with all her war-paint on, I can 
assure you. And truth to say, she amazes me 1 She’s forty-seven, 
if she’s a day ; and you’d never ha’ taken her for much over thirty. 
Would you believe it, she’d a cream lace dress on ; and all tossed off 
wi’ splendid dark red chrysanthemums. An’ she’d a great diamond 
pendant at her throat, half as big again as that ’at poor Kerne gave 
£60 for the day we’d been married twenty year. She’s none a 
favourite o’ mine, she’s over proud an’ stiff for that ; but I’m bound 
to say she looked every inch a lady, an’ behaved like one. They do 
do that, them Chalgroves.’ 

‘ But who else was there ? You have told me nothing yet.’ 

‘ Oh, there’s none so much to tell. One dinner-party’s very much 
like another. The rooms looked beautiful ; the lamps had splendid 
shades, so had the candles ; and the flowers was beyond all descrip- 
tion. A lot o’ them came from abroad ; 1 got that out of Mrs. 

Godfrey herself. An’ then the music made such a difference 

Oh me ; if I was a grand lady I’d aUus hev music at dinner- 
time.’ 

‘ But who played ? surely not any of the guests ?’ 

Mrs. Kerne paused a moment, quite a pitiful look mingling with 
the look of superior understanding on her face. 

‘ Who played ? why the band played, to be sure ; the Volunteer 
band from Danesborough.’ 

* Oh, really I But wasn’t it very loud ?’ 

‘ Loud ? not a bit of it. At first, in fact, we couldn’t hear ’em 
at all. The Canon had asked ’em to play in the courtyard at the 
back of the Rectory. An’ by-an’-by Mrs. Godfrey appealed to me 
— ’twas very nice an’ polite of her really — “ Mrs. Kerne,” she says, 
“ can you hear the band ? What do you think ? Had we better 
hev’ it a little nearer ? Would it be too near in the ante- room, 
d’ ya think ?” 

‘ So I said no. I thought it ’ud be a deal better ; so she sends a 
message by the butler, an’ within five minutes the band was play- 


173 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


ing just in tlie next room, so soft, so beautiful, so overcomin’ ’at 
you could hardly help the tears, specially not when they played 
“ Home, Sweet Home,” and the “ Last Eose o’ Summer. Believe 
me, I put down my knife an’ fork upon the finest bit o’ partridge ! 
I couldn’t ha’ eaten it wi’ my heart s wellin’ so, — no I couldn’t ; 
though I don’t make out ’at I’m one of the sofest-hearted sort o’ 
folk. Still, there’s moments, I reckon, there’s moments i* most 
lives, an’ that was one, certainly that was one !’ 

‘But you’ve not told me yet who the main part of the guests 
were !’ Mrs. Monk-Fryston said with a little querulousness. She 
had not the suave manner of your true interviewer. But then, the 
interviewer is like the poet — born, not made. 

‘ Oh, I’ve no list of ’em,’ Mrs. Kerne replied, in a manner meant 
to be grand, but which was only rude and brusque. ‘ I’ve no list 
of ’em ; an’ titles don’t dazzle me^ as they do some folk. I saw no 
more in Lord Hermeston than I did in the Canon, maybe not so 
much. An’ as for Sir Robert an’ Lady Sinnington, well, if it 
weren’t for the title I reckon they’d never be received into no first- 
rate society.’ 

‘ You don’t say so I . . , But Lady Thelton now, wasn’t she 
there ?’ 

‘ Of course she was ; no party at the Rectory would be complete 
without her. And very handsome and stylish she looked with her 
rubies, and her point lace, and her dark red velvet dress. . . . But 
I make nought of all that ! What did take me, was her real polite- 
ness. She spoke to me about the engagement as feelingly as if my 
niece had been my own daughter. In truth, altogether, I was struck 
with the way in which everybody seemed to be interested. In point 
of fact, it was a real sensation ; an’ so he seemed to think. As for 
her — my niece — well, I must say she was more like a white marble 
statue than a girl just engaged to be married. And with all these 
grand folks about her ; and all makin’ so much to do, I didn’t, at 
the bottom of my heart, think it was quite nice of her. But then 
she was always one o’ that sort, sweet anuff, an’ nice anuif in her 
own way — but then, her way was her own, an’ it was a little bit 
“ stuck up,” as the sayin’ goes ; but if I didn’t altogether like it, Fd 
no need to give in to it ; an’ I never did. Yet, I’ll do her the justice 
to say as she never resented it, never bore me no ill-will. She was 
as sweet last night as if we’d alius been the best friends in the 
world. She’s no bitterness about her.’ 

‘ And Mr. Aldenmede, the artist, wasn’t he there ? I’ve heard 
more than one say that he had ideas about Miss Theyn himself. 
They’ve been seen talkin’ on the beach over and over again.’ 

Mrs. Kerne’s smile was wonderful to see, it was so superior, so 
pitiful, so full of never-to-bc "^'^plained meaning. 

‘ Him have ideas ! No doubt. B it if my niece isn’t very sharp, 
she’s not quite a fool ! An’ as for him bein’ asked to dine at the 
Rectory on such an occasion as that — well, it wasn’t very likely.’ 

Such was the terrible drift of the gossip that was circulating 


‘ LA TE, LA TE, SO LA TE t 173 

almost everywhere. It was well for Thorhilda that she did not 
even dream of it. 

She had made her choice ; she would abide by it — so she was 
determining while everyone about her was congratulating her on 
the happiness of her choice. 

For some days she avoided any moment of calm reflection, and 
this of set purpose. Miss Douglas was asked to come and stay at 
the Rectory, to occupy the room next to Thorhilda’s ; and each 
night the last, worst moments were passed in conversation that 
seldom came near the one matter predominant above all others in 
Thorhilda’s heart and soul. It was strange, and Gertrude Douglas 
knew it to be strange, that she was hardly permitted to mention the 
name of Percival Meredith. 

‘ You are so different from me, dear,’ she said one night as she 
sat by Thorhilda’s fire, her long, pretty brown hair flowing over her 
pale pink flannel dressing-gown, her dark, bright eyes alight with 
interest, with curiosity. ‘ You are so different from me 1 If I 
loved anyone, I think I should wish always to be near them, or at 
any rate always near to someone who would talk to me of the one 
I loved. And you — you seem to shrink if I mention Mr. Meredith’s 
name ! Why is it ? Do you know why ? Are you conscious of it 
at all yourself !’ 

Thorhilda was silent for a iffoment — silent and even paler than 
usual. 

‘ I think I am only conscious so far,’ she said at last. * It seems 
now such a terrible matter ; for life or for death. There is no 
escape.’ 

‘ Escape ! My dear child, what an odd word to have in your 
head 1 Escape from Percival Meredith ! from Ormston Magna ! 
from nearly three thousand a year ! My dear, cautious-speaking 
old father says two thousand five hundred. And you speak of 
escape ! My child, are you insane ?’ 

‘ I am not sure,’ Thorhilda said slowly. ‘ I am not sure ! Yon 
are putting words to thoughts that have been in my mind for some 
time. What is sanity — pure, clear, human sanity ? . . . I am not 
so sure that I know !’ 

This was beyond Miss Douglas ; she laughed a low, sweet, empty 
laugh, drew Thorhilda down to the sofa by the fire, and held her 
younger friend’s hand affectionately in her own. 

‘ Don’t tempt Providence, dear,’ she said with sufficient solemnity. 
* I am not an envious person — if I were, I should envy you from 
the bottom of my heart. It seemed to me that you have everything 
any human being could wish for. You have a good home — I might 
say a luxurious one ; but I know that that would pain you ; you 
have the kindest of kind friends ; and now, to crown all, the Prince 
comes by. He throws himself at your feet ; and after long enough 
probation, you bid him rise and allow him to kiss the tips of your 
fingers. Having done that, you put on a melancholy air as if the 
sacrifice were too much for you,’ 


174 


IN EXCHANGE FOE A SOUL. 


All this was far too near the truth to be quite pleasant ; and it 
was small wonder that Miss Theyn avoided such conversation as 
much as was possible. Yet she could not avoid the growing sense of 
being bound, irrevocably bound.* 

‘ I suppose it is always so,’ she said to herself one night, standing 
alone by the window of her own room. 

It was a clear, calm, moonlit night. The trees in the garden stood 
still and gray, the mystic interweaving of the leafless branches 
showing against the silver-toned ether beyond. It was a night, a 
scene, to compel the soul to be truthful to itself, however painful 
such truth might be ; and Thorhilda Theyn could not escape from 
that compelling influence. 

‘ I suppose it is so with all thinking women,’ she said. * To have 
given one’s self to another must* be to know one’s self poorer for the 
gift I How strange it is to be called upon to surrender one’s very 
identity. ‘It is certainly fitting and typical that one should lose 
one’s very name. And to be congratulated, felicitated on every hand 
as if it were the greatest good that had come to one— a good with 
no drawback, a gain with no loss I Is that why the whole thing is 
smothered in finery and the tawdriest of outward show — that a 
woman may not think — that she may be dazzled by the millinery of 
the whole affair to such an extent that she may not have time to 
think of the hereafter ? Is this wha^ marriage means ? Is this the 
highest ? Is this the best ? 

This time of storm and stress lasted for some days after the irre- 
vocable word had been given ; but naturally it wore itself out. It 
is seldom given to human nature to remain long upon the mountain- 
peak of any emotion whatever. 

Preparations for the marriage were being hurried forward ; in one 
way or another, things connected with the approaching change in 
her life came to the surface every hour. Did she need a new gown, 
or pair of boots ? She was reminded that it would be better to 
wait a little while — a very little — then to choose this for tra- 
velling, that for receptions, and so forth. She was never allowed 
to forget. 

Percival Meredith came and went. He was quiet, happy, never 
visibly triumphant, or over-assured to any offensive degree. He 
understood too well for that. He sat on the sofa in the Rectory 
drawing-room, rather silent, well-bred, distinguished-looking, wait- 
ing upon Thorhilda’s lightest word, letting no wish or desire of 
hers escape him. Yet he was never obtrusive, never forward, or 
exigeant. 

Mrs. Godfrey marvelled a little at them both. Were these lovers 
— these two reticent, self-contained people, who spoke of the 
‘ weather and the crops,’ ‘ Shakespeare and the musical glasses,’ with 
such perfect equanimity ? The Rector’s wife was even a little 
impatient at times. Being so full of life, and of all life’s minor 
enthusiasms, herself, it chafed her to watch the unmoved bearing 
of two people who should have been — so to speak — electric with 


175 


^LATE, LATE, SO LATE f 

sympathy, with emotion ; who should have rarified the very 
atmosphere about them with the fervidness, the intensity of their 
affection. 

‘Well,’ she said one day to Gertrude Douglas, who was full of 
understanding as to this perplexing state of things. ‘ Well, I sup- 
pose we are not made alike ; but when I remember the last few 
weeks before my own marriage, and then look at Thorda, I am all 
bewilderment. Looking back upon myself, upon the state of exalta- 
tion I was in, and then turning to watch her — her perfect self-con- 
trol, her unbroken quietness, her uneager manner, her unfervid 
glance — I cailnot, I cannot but dread that all this means indifference. 
, . . Why should she be so hard to move ? She is not cold-hearted 
— anything but that. Indeed I have always felt that somewhere in 
her nature there must be a most passionate intensity of loving- 
ness. I had hoped to see it come to the surface now ; I felt sure of 
it. Yet day by day I wait and watch, and the day ends in disap- 
pointment.’ 

‘Yet she isn’t reserved with one,’ Miss Douglas said musingly. 

‘ Eeserved ! No, not exactly that ; nor exactly open. The reserve 
is somehow thrown upon one’s self. I do not — I do not dare to 
speak the simple truth ; I do not dare to question her, to remon- 
strate with her. What is there that one could take hold of ? She 
receives Percival with all kindness, all politeness I If she would 
but once be a little rude, a little brusque, one would dare to 
speak.’ 

‘ But that she will never be,’ said Gertrude Douglas, who fell 
again into that unusual mood of absent-mindedness ; and was not 
again to be roused out of it during the whole of the afternoon. 
What new and forcible idea had taken possession of her, who 
should say ? 


CHAPTER XLII. 

SOMEWHERE THERE MUST BE LIGHT/ 

• The crown and comfort of my life, your favouTi 
1 do give lost, for I do feel it gone.’ 

Shakespeare. 

Outwardly Barbara’s life was going on much as it had always 
done ; but the changes of which she never spoke were not small, 
not unimportant. 

It was no light matter to have an infant to care for in addition 
to the four children she had cared and toiled for before. True, the 
Lfcighbours were good, and any fishwife on the Forecliff would take 
* Bab’s Ildy ’ for a few hours while Barbara went, as of old, to the 
flither-beds, or sat at the herring-house ‘ scaling mussels,’ or ‘ bait- 
ing lines,’ or mending nets, or doing any of the hundred and one 
things by which the wives and daughters of the fishermen earn a 
little money to help in the providing of the household needs. There 


176 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


was no other house on the Forecliff where the burden of providing 
for a family fell upon a girl not yet twenty. 

Bab had never before suffered much from the narrowness of her 
narrow means. She had never known anything else. Economy of 
the closest had been familiar to her from her very childhood. To 
have a dinner — and that a scanty one — of animal food once a week, 
on a Sunday usually, was all that she had ever dreamed of. 

And Bab had had no lessons in cooking ; she had never seen a 
scientific scale of diet ; she knew nothing of the various values of 
various foods. That albumen should not be hardened ; that osma- 
zome should be retained ; that ‘ body-warmers,’ and ‘ flesh-formers ’ 
should be given in about equal quantities — alas ! all this was un- 
known to Barbara Burdas ; yet she did her best, obeying instinct, 
which goes for something, and tradition, which is worth less, but 
yet is binding when no other light or law is known. 

The wonder of it was that Bab herself had always had such 
splendid health ; her complexion was bright and clear, the carmine 
tints of it full and vivid ; her deep-blue eyes were as lustrous and 
as beautiful as if her diet had been regulated by a whole college of 
physicians. And it was the same with the little ones. The three 
lads, rude, robust, seemed likely to suffer far more from plethora 
than from inanition ; and if little Ailsie’s more delicate frame 
caused greater fear, greater perplexity, this was not shared by any 
who knew the sacrifice that Bab was even now making. 

Over and over, a few pence at a time, she had saved enough to buy 
this book or that, usually one lent to her by Damian Aldenmede, 
but which in her natural independence she had declined to keep. 

‘I have kept so many,’ she said one evening. ‘Why, there’s 
over twenty on the shelf upstairs ; an’ your shelves, in your own 
room, look as bare as can be. It fairly made my heart ache to see 
them.’ 

‘ It need not,’ Aldenmede replied quite carelessly. * I have some 
other shelves at home, not badly filled.’ 

Again Bab had looked into his face with that questioning look he 
knew so well, and which amused him so deeply. Some time he 
would satisfy her questions by an answer he liked to think of. 
Meanwhile he found a rather cruel amusement in raising her 
wonder, her interest, and then watching how she forbore to ask a 
single question in words that could betray curiosity. Already he 
was proud of Bab. 

But yet how little, how very little, he knew of her real life ! He 
had acquaintance enough with the interior arrangements of the 
cottage on the Forecliff not to intrude when the mid-day meal was 
on the table. How he might have shivered to see six people enjoy- 
ing a dish made of the boiled udder of a cow ; of a gaunt and spare 
salted cod’s head ; and yet the dishes were, in their way, nourish- 
ing ; witness the boys, whose hardy, rosy cheeks might have made 
many a richer mother envious ! And almost each evening came a 
supper that might be more nourishing still. Bab seldom failed to 


^SOMEWHERE THtRE MUST BE LIGHT: 177 


prepare a big kettle of rice boiled in the quart of skim milk which 
she could purchase for three-ha’pence ; or to fill the big frying-pan 
with potatoes and onions, and a scrap of good salted fish if she could 
get it. It is certain that there were children on the Forecliff worse 
fed than those brought up by poor, ignorant Bab Burdas. 

But it was for little Ailsie, and Nan’s baby, that time after time 
her hoard of money, one shilling or two, had to be taken to buy 
better food — now a tin of costly -seeming farinaceous food for little 
Ildy (named Thorhilda in the register of the parish church at Yar- 
burgh, but never again till a recent event in her girl-life demanded 
it). And now the shilling or the sixpence was taken to buy a real 
mutton-chop ; or a few ounces of real port wine for her little sister 
who was always so quiet, so pale, yet so bright, so good, so full of 
small childish sympathies. 

It was only by watching, by slowly and silently watching, that 
David Andoe came to discern what it really meant to Bab to have 
the charge of his sister’s child ; and his instinct led him to perceive 
that no offer 6f help on his part would be welcome. Once or twice 
he had called to see Nan’s baby ; he had bent over the cradle where 
the little one lay sleeping ; not only in quietness and cleanliness, 
but with some attempt at daintiness all about her. Barbara told him 
that Miss Theyn had sent the swing-cot, with all its pretty chintz 
draperies, its loops and bows of rose-red ribbon. A small white 
counterpane covered the warm blanket. The little Ildy lay smiling 
upon the soft pillow ; happy, comfortable as the veriest princess of 
a baby might have been. Bab’s pride was touching to see. 

David smiled and sighed both in a breath as he watched the 
child. How did Barbara manage to do all her own work, and 
yet make possible such home-life as this ? The Sagged House 
was but very little better furnished than his own home ; yet, ah, 
the difference ! 

Here the brick floor was clean and wholesome — at home it was so 
foul that no one might say whether it was brick or stone. Here 
the old oaken dresser with its blue plates, its suspended cups and 
jugs, was a pleasant thing to contemplate ; at home hardly a piece 
of crockery-ware was to be found that was not dirty, or cracked, or 
actually broken. And then under the dresser Barbara had ranged 
her copper tea-kettle, her bright brass pans, her brass candlesticks 
— heirlooms these for the most part, and seldom to be used in the 
common daily life. That Bab was a little proud of them was 
known all over the Forecliff, and helped in some vague way to 
add to the impression that she- was not quite as the other fisher- 
folk were. David Andoe saw it all again, and again it saddened 
him to a degree of sadness lower than before. The contrast was 
too pointed. 

There was no pile of ill-smelling nets or lines cumbering the 
floor here ; no dishes of potato-peeling standing about the floor for 
elderly and ragged-looking fowls to come in and peck at at their 
pleasure. Even old Ephraim’s sou’wester hung in the tiny pas- 

12 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


178 

sage, and his sea-boots stood within the door of the coal-shed 
outside. Barbara was as sensitive to strong odours as any lady of 
her land. 

David did not enter into any details as he sat there. All that he 
knew, or rather felt, was that he sat by a home fireside where 
there was warmth, and order, and peace, and the certain security 
that comes of the presence of but one human being whose 
character is strong, and stable, and pure. This was rest ; this was 
soothing 1 Had hope been there, it had been happiness of the 
finest. 

He could not help speaking out of his full heart. His training 
had not been such as to lead him on to the finer and more perfect 
restraints. 

‘ It’s like bein’ in heaven, Barberie, this is !’ the poor fellow said, 
in somewhat pathetic tones, as he drew near to the blazing fire. 
Old Ephraim was nodding in his chair on the other side of the fire ; 
the children were all in bed and asleep. A lamp burnt clearly and 
brightly on the table ; Barbara sat by the little cot, Ker knitting in 
her hand, the needle plying fast, yet not claiming all her attention. 
Every moment or two she glanced at the little Ildy, touching the 
cradle to a light rocking movement if the baby seemed restless, 
leaving it alone if she slept in peace. Bab had had no training in 
such matters, but her instincts being kindly — nay, loving — reason 
served her for the rest. 

‘ It is like heaven,’ David said in a low, touching voice. Barbara 
quite understood ; and almost trembled in her understanding. 
But for awhile, suspending her knitting-needles, she tried to think 
calmly, 

‘ I don’t know about this bein’ much like heaven,’ she said at 
last. ‘ But, eh, it does seem to me that people needn’t make their 
lives so much like — like the other place, as they so often do 1 It is 
a mystery.’ 

‘ Ay, so it is — but they do do that.’ 

‘ It’s the want of understanding,’ Barbara replied, looking into 
the fire thoughtfully. ‘ It’s nothing but that — they don’t under- 
stand. And how should they ? There’s been none to teach them 
— none that could see the sort of teaching that poor people wanted. 
They looked down from above, and comprehended nothing that 
they saw. They didn’t know why poor folk’s houses was dirty, nor 
why their bit of food was badly cooked ; ‘repulsive ’ they would call 
it, an’ so it is to them. But they couldn’t trace all this to its 
beginning— how should they ? All they could do was to blame, and 
blame, and never see to the root of things. . . . But, eh, me ! I’ve 
hope enough I I see signs on every side. Why, the very books one 
reads gives one hope ’at they’re beginning to see — them that can 
help. Oh, yes, believe me, David, there’s hope on every side !’ 

‘ Hope for some^ maybe, not for me,’ the poor fellow rephed, with 
sadness in his tone. ‘ Hope for some. May God grant as you’ll be 
one o’ them 1’ 


^SOMEWHERE THERE MUST BE LIGHT! 179 

Then he rose to go, standing for another moment or two by the 
cheery fire, lingering another by the dainty little cot where the baby 
lay smiling on its soft white pillow. It was hard to go, and Barbara, 
with compassionate soul and warm heart, fully understood, far too 
fully for her own peace of mind. 

‘Don’t be downcast, David,’ she said, speaking kindly, sadly. 

‘ There’s many a one that has more reason to be downcast than you 
have.’ 

Was she meaning herself ? Was that possible, considering all that 
had happened of late ? David did not know, he felt bewildered, 
and by-and-by he went away, leaving Barbara Burdas far more un- 
settled, more saddened, more perplexed than he himself was. After 
a difficult quarter of an hour, Barbara was glad to hear the familiar 
click of the latch that betokened the coming of old Hagar F urniss. 
It was not only that she needed distraction ; some impelling instinct 
within her required more than that. 

‘Come in, Hagar; come to the fire,’ Bab said warmly. ‘It’s 
cold anufO outside ; but, thank God, we’re able to keep a fire 
going.’ 

The old woman began to shed quiet, feeble, ineifectual tears, the 
tears of age, that have in them no passion, no vehemence, nothing 
to touch any heart not the most sensitive. 

‘ It’s well for you, honey,’ she said, sobbing gently, speaking 
gently. ‘ It’s well for you ’at hes a bit o’ coal at the hoose end 
an’ a bite bread i’ the cupboard I ’Tisn’t iverybody can saay as 
much.’ 

‘ Why, you don’t mean to say ’at youWe wantin’, Hagar ?’ Bab 
asked, surprised out of her own troubles. But she did not express 
her true feeling in words. In a very few minutes there was a com- 
fortable meal spread on the table : tea, and toasted bread and butter, 
and a boiled egg. Poor old Hagar began to eat at once, in that 
painful, eager, tremulous fashion that betrays long hunger, long 
faintness, and need. Bab, her own troubles regaining their domi- 
nance, only waited to see the old woman fairly comfortable, fairly 
satisfied ; then, obeying an instinct that was strong within her, she 
rose to her feet and took out her shawl from the oaken press 
at the further end of the room, and prepared to go out of 
doors. 

‘ You won’t mind, Hagar — you won’t mind my going out for a 
while. I’ve not been out since the early morning, and I’m keenly 
set upon walkin’ over the fields for a bit. Can you stay ?’ 

‘ Can Ah staay, honey ? . . . Why if Ah mun tell the truth Ah 
were wantin’ to ask ya if Ah mud sleep here, on the mat by the 
fire ? Ah’ve seen neither bite nor sup to-fiaay, nor a bit o’ coal — 
noa, niver the lowe of a coal fire till Ah come in here to-neet, an’ 
Ah’d niver ha’ done that but Ah were fairly starvin’ ! . . . Let ma 
staay Bab, honey — let ma sleep here on the mat ! Ah’ll do owt Ah 
can for ya i’ the mornin’. Ah d be right glad to do a bit o’ wasljin’ 
—an’ ya mum hev a lot o’ that wiv a young bairn to do for !’ 

12—2 


i8o 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


Bab’s only reply was to bring a spare rug and a pillow from her 
own bed, and to make the old woman quite cozy on the ‘ settle ’ by 
the fire. 

‘ Now lie there till I come back,’ she said. ‘ An’ if ya hear any 
of the little ones stirring, go an’ see what they want. There’s 
Ildy’s milk by the fire, an’ none o’ them else wants nothing till the 
morning. Gran’father ’ll go to bed at eight o’clock. Don’t wake 
him before !’ 

So Bab went out into the cool dark December night. There was 
no moon — the tiny silver crescent had gone down behind the hills 
long before ; but the stars shone at their best and brightest, and the 
world seemed quieter, holier for their far-off shining ; and the sea 
seemed subdued to a gentler movement ; the land was wrapt as in 
a peaceful dream. Everywhere there was peace, save in Barbara’s 
own soul. 

She had seemed to herself to be quiet enough till David Andoe, 
with all his subdued and unsubdued emotion, had awakened the 
echoes of that love which she had hoped was dying — yet, oh ! so 
hardly, so very hardly in her own heart. Now she was all unstrung 
again. The battle had to be fought once more. Once more ! How 
many times more ? Was her life to be spent in this need of 
love ? 

Ah ! how many lives are spent— spent, exactly thus — in needing 
love, in craving for it, in trying everywhere to search it out ? And 
one shall find it, and presently lose it again ; and another shall find 
it, and know no good, no beauty in it. How few have life and love, 
continuance of love — love remaining always for blessing and up- 
raising ! 

Was Barbara Burdas going to pass her life thus — in hoping, in 
finding the end of hope ? She thought of it in a vague passing 
way as she flew onward through the lanes beyond the Bight. There 
was a flagged pathway through the fields, a descent into a fir copse, a 
hill to be climbed on the other side ; and that the top of the hill 
was a long three miles from the Forecliff, Barbara was very well 
aware : yet she did not stop to think of the distance ; she was 
thinking of nothing save a dream that was growing gradually in 
her own brain — a vision of Yarburgh Kectory, with the windows 
all alight with splendid lamps and glowing fires. So Thomasin 
Furniss had described it to her once, when some halibut had had to 
be taken to the Eectory even while the guests were assembled to 
eat it. Bab had never forgotten the description of all that 
Thomasin had seen that evening. 

This was no dinner-party, not so far as Barbara knew ; and 
certainly she did not care. She had no desire, no dream, except 
that but for a moment she might be near to Miss Theyn. That 
was the one cry that she would allow her heart to make. All the 
rest could be stifled, it must be stifled ; but this might be allowed, 
surely this ! And it w^ould not happen often, perhaps never again ; 
but surely it might be permitted to her for once, just for once, to 


^SOMEWHERE THERE MUST BE LIGHT: i8i 


walk outside the house where Miss Theyn lived — perhaps even in 
the garden, if the gates were not shut ! And she might see the 
window of Miss Theyn’s room ; perhaps even know, from the 
shadow on the blind, that she was dressing for dinner. Bab had 
learnt much of late. 

And all this detail of vision notwithstanding, there was nothing 
small at the root of Barbara’s ideals. The one motive was the 
drawing to be for a little while near to one she loved. 

Forgive her, if even in this mere drawing there was yet a taint 
of materialism. It is only the very finest natures of all who can 
live in love, knowing that this love is growing, strengthening, 
though actual nearness be not attained for weeks, for months, nay, 
even for years. The test of time is not only the strongest, it is the 
most beautiful test of all. 

This Barbara had yet to learn in all its truth, all its fulness. 
She only knew to-night that she was moved to pass over miles of 
lane and field as if she were but passing over a few yards. Her 
imagination saw only the quaint gray old house upon the hill-top 
at Market Yar burgh. 

She stood upon the lawn at last. She had found no bolts or bars 
to prevent her, and she had made her way up the wide avenue as 
one not dreaming of any right or title to be there. Instantly she 
found her way to the front of the house, not knowing it to be the 
front. There was only a light here and there in the upper 
windows, but on the lower story there was what seemed to Barbara 
a very illumination from three of the windows, each of which 
reached to the ground, and, being uncurtained, disclosed the room 
within. Bab stood staring awhile, not dazzled so much by the 
light, not by the strange wonderful beauty, as by the silence, the 
emptiness o£ it all. She had not meant to be curious, still less to 
be. a spy upon aught to be seen of the Rectory from without ; yet 
she stood as if spell-bound when once she had discerned that in all 
this wide magnificence of light, of colour, of beauty, there was no 
human soul to enjoy. For a time Barbara was bewildered. 

At last, as she stood there she saw a door open, far away at the 
end of the room, and then two ladies entered slowly, gracefully, 
richly dressed. They came in together, arm-in-arm ; the eider lady 
was bending down toward the younger one, and as they reached the 
glow of the fire the younger one lifted her face for a kiss — a warm, 
lovingly-given kiss. Then Bab did not know any more for awhile ; 
but under the evergreen oak opposite to the drawing-room window 
there was the sound of sobbing, much subdued, yet painful enough 
had any been there to listen. Barbara was but too sure that no 
listener was there. All her grief lay in her lonliness. 


i 82 


IN EXCHANGE FOE A SOUL. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

IP MUSIC BE THE FOOD OP LOVE, PLAY ON/ 

* Trust me, no mere skill of subtle power, 

No mere practice of a dext’rous hand, 

Will sufSce without a hidden spirit, 

That we may or may not understand.* 

A. A. Procter. 

Barbara’s tears had been stayed some time, yet she knelt theie 
under the shadow of the tree, quiet, wondering at herself, yet 
thinking mainly of others. It was a still, clear night ; the stars 
shone and glittered, the outlines of the trees and of the house were 
distinct against the deep indigo of the sky. For a time hardly a 
sound broke the silence, save the hooting of a melancholy owl in a 
tree at the bottom of the garden. Presently even this ceased, 
leaving a perfect stillness upon the land everywhere. Not a twig 
was stirred, not a blade of glass quivered, not a bird moved in its 
nest with any audible movement. It was a moment when silence 
itself is a strong impression. 

Then all at once that beautiful silence was broken, but broKen by 
a sound so thrilling, so sweet, and to Barbara so strange, that she 
rose to her feet and stood with clasped hands and uplifted face, as 
one entranced might have done. What could it be, this beautiful, 
this ineffably beautiful music ? 

It may seem strange in these days that Barbara should never 
have heard the tones of a piano ; but so it was. And now 
that this first experience should come under circumstances so 
unusual was suificient to stamp the impression on her mind 
for ever. She remained standing there for some time ; one of the 
windows of the drawing-room was open ; the light from the room 
was streaming out over the terrace, over the shrubs, over the leaf- 
less trees. And somehow the music seemed part of the light, part 
of all the beauty within and without. Bab had no idea of what the 
music might be. It seemed like a prayer, like pleading, and con- 
fessii^g, and beseeching. And now there was agitation in the cry, 
an excitement that seemed to stir the very air. It was as if 
she was watching a shipwreck, listening to the cry of drowning 
women, of children left to perish. Half unconscionsly she drew 
nearer to the window ; she could see Miss Theyn sitting by the 
piano, her white hands moving up and down, now slowly and 
gracefully, now in a quick, impassioned way. Only her profile was 
visible from where Barbara stood, and Bab could see that she 
looked pale and sad — sad as the music she was making, which now 
by degrees was growing sadder than ever, more plaintive, more 
deeply charged with pain and regret, with loss and trembling and 
fear. Bab hardly knew that the tears were running down her own 
face — tears of sympathy, of longing ; and when at last a sob broke 
from her, a passionate, overwhelming sob that was half a cry, she 


^IF MUSIC BE THE FOOD OF LOVE, PLA Y ONJ 183 

was startled at least as much as Miss Theyn was, whose fingers 
stopped suddenly upon the keys in the middle of a soft, sad 
passage in a Nocturne by Chopin. Bab saw that she had heard, she 
saw the uplifted, surprised face ; yet she could not move ; she had 
no wish to move. 

‘ Go on playing, Thorda dear,’ said a sleepy voice from among the 
sofa cushions behind the screen. 

‘ I will begin again presently, Aunt Milicent,’ Thorhilda replied 
calmly as she came near to the window. 

She was not altogether unalarmed, yet she would not betray her 
alarm yet awhile. Opening the window a little wider she looked 
out, and saw the dark figure upon the terrace, quite close. 

‘ Is it anyone 1 know she asked in a tone so as not to disturb 
her aunt. 

And instantly the answer came : 

‘ Yes, Miss Theyn, it’s me, Barbara Burdas. Will you forgive 
me ? I never meant to disturb you.’ 

Thorhilda, discerning the sound of tears in Barbara’s voice, would 
not ask her to enter the drawing-room. 

‘ Wait there awhile, will you ? I want to see you,’ she replied. 

Then she turned and said a few words to her aunt, who was too 
sleepy to take a very lively interest in her niece’s movements at that 
moment. 

A few seconds later Thorhilda was by Barbara’s side, holding her 
hand, entreating her to come into the house, to her own room ; but 
Barbara was not easily persuaded to this. At last, however, fear- 
ing that Miss Theyn might take cold there on the terrace, she 
yielded. It was a somewhat memorable moment. For the first 
time Miss Theyn was conscious of a feeling — was it gratitude for 
devotion ? was it affection ? was it sympathy ? She hardly knew 
herself ; but the sense of being drawn to Barbara was certainly 
there, and the simple, truthful way in which she said, ‘ I am glad to 
see you, Barbara,’ as she took the girl’s hand again, and led her to 
her own easy-chair by the fireside, was sufficient to make poor Bab’s 
heart rise and swell for very gladness. No words could have told 
it all. 

‘ I never thought of this — not for a moment,’ Bab said, in Eng- 
lish almost as pure as Miss Theyn’s own. 

The very accent was changed, softened, purified ; now and then 
some inflection stirred Thorhilda strangely, as if it were a disturb- 
ing memory. At last she detected the cause of this ; it was the 
echo of Damian Aldenmede’s way of speaking that she heard, and 
the detection caused the hot colour to flow over her face and neck in 
a way that was perplexing to Barbara. Had she said aught that had 
been taken amiss ? 

It was a curious hour. Barbara felt the warmth, the softness, the 
delicate beauty of the room almost as she had felt the music. Did 
people live thus always? Was this no rare occasion? Was the 
bouse always thus— filled with light, and warmth, and loveliness 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, 


184 

everywhere ? The walls of even the landings and staircases seemed 
almost crowded with pictures ; bookcases filled with books seemed 
to occupy every recess. Lamps hung from the ceiling ; white 
muslin and lace looped back, with rose-pink ribbons floated about 
the windows of Miss Theyn^s room ; the toilet-table, with all its 
belongings, seemed a very miracle of artistic arrangement. Was it 
kept so always ? That was the mystery. A thing might be done 
for once, but to keep up all this refinement of surrounding seemed 
almost impossible. Yet Bab did not consciously dwell upon these 
ideas — they came later. Now she was troubled, and glad, and half 
ashamed, and half enchanted. Was it possible that Miss Theyn was 
‘ glad to see her ’? 

‘I never thought of this,’ she repeated, sitting in Thorhilda’s 
little chair, her rich red-gold hair gleaming in the light of lamp and 
fire, her deep sad blue eyes shining with a new and happy light. 

Miss Theyn, sitting opposite to her, watching her wonderful 
beauty — really wonderful now in the new softness, the new gentle- 
ness, the new refinement that had come upon it — watching her 
thus, she could not but be amazed ; and to listen to the words that 
fell from the fisher-girl’s lips was more amazing still. ‘ Could love, 
mere love, do so much ?’ 

‘ Tell me what you did intend ?’ Miss Theyn said gently. ‘ I hope 
you intended to come and see me. Long ago I asked you.’ 

‘ So you did ; but I never meant to come— not then. No — nor 
not now in this way. . . . How shall I tell you the truth ? I was 
tired, tired and lonely, and old Hagar came in so that I could 
leave the little ones, and all at once I felt as if I nytist come here — 
as if I must but just look at your house — the home you lived in 
always, but just outside of it ! I had no thought of the distance — 
none. I wanted to come, to stand for a few minutes, and then go 
back. But w^hen I heard the music I couldn’t go— no, I could not. 
. , . Do you know, I’ve never heard music like that before — no, 
nor never dreamed of none like it. Is it a piano ?’ 

‘Yes . . . You have never heard one ?’ 

‘ No. . . . There’s none on the Forecliff. And I’ve never been 
much in the way of goin’ to the town. . . . I’ve heard the band, 
though — them that has two fiddles and the harp at Danesborough. 
That is beautiful— but not— not like this. . . . How did you ever 
learn to play so splendid ?’ 

‘I do not play well— not very well. I have a friend — Miss 
Douglas — who can play much better.’ 

‘ Oh ; is that so ? Because I heard him say— Mr. Aldenmede, I 
mean — I heard him say one day to the Canon — it was when he was 
paintin’ on the Scaur — I heard him say as he’d never heard no 
playin’ like yours — no, none to come near it for — for expression — that 
w^as what he said. I remember, because I wondered so much what 
he meant. And the Canon looked pleased, and said he thought so 
too.’ 

Thorhilda knew only too well that the crimson glow on her face 


*IF MUSIC BE THE FOOD OF LOVE, PL A Y ONJ 185 

was going on deepening and deepening, that the agitation of her 
heart and mind was visible on every feature of her face, in every 
muscle of her figure. 

‘ Have you seen Mr. Aldenmede lately T she said, trying with all 
her effort to seem calm and self-possessed. 

‘ Yes ; I saw him last night, and on Monday night. I see him 
four nights of every week. Isn’t that kind of him, and good ? 
And, oh ! how could I ever tell you of all he does and says by way 
of teaching me, and helping me ? You couldn’t think of the way 
he has of reminding me when I don’t sound the h’s. But that’s 
nothing, he says, to dropping the g’s ; that hurts his ear ever so 
much worse, and I’d never known that there was any g’s, not to 
notice them in speaking. But every now and then I forget. Yet 
all these are little things, not to be named by the side of the greater 
ones. . . . Oh, how can I ever be grateful enough to one that’s done 
so much for me ?’ 

There was a moment’s silence — a painful silence on the one side. 
At last Miss Theyn spoke, evidently with effort ; 

‘You speak of what Mr. Aldenmede has done. Does that mean 
that his kindness to you is at an end ? , . . Is he leaving Ulvstan 
Bight ?’ 

‘!Not just yet — at least, I hope not. But he has seemed very 
uncertain of late, as if he didn’t know what he was going to do. . . . 
And in other ways — I don’t know whether you have noticed it — in 
other ways he seems changed. Don’t you think so Miss Theyn ?’ 

Thorhilda sat looking into the fire, smoothing out the hem of her 
cambric handkerchief, seeming now as calm and cold as before she 
had seemed agitated. 

‘ I have not seen Mr. Aldenmede, not for some time past,’ she 
said at length, speaking with an almost exaggerated quietness. 

She could not say more to Barbara Burdas ; she Could not say to 
her, ‘I have not seen him since my engagement. Day by day I 
have expected to see him, to have to listen to his congratulations, 
but day by day he has spared me ; and now, now I know what such 
sparing means !’ 

Thorhilda could say nothing of all this, nor did she quite recog- 
nise that she was speaking to one whose eyes had been opened by 
sorrow, by pain — the pain of loving and losing. Barbara was as 
silent, as thoughtful as Miss Theyn herself for awhile. 

‘I thought you had been seeing him often,’ she said at last. 
‘ Perhaps it was that I hoped you had. I think that must have been 
it ; that I hoped you’d seen him — seen how much he’d changed of 
late. I never knew no one turn so desparately sad all of a sudden. 
It’s ever so long now since he touched his picture ; he seems to have 
no heart for paintin ’ — there I painting, I meant to say.’ 

‘ Do you always think of Mr. Aldenmede when you speak ?’ Miss 
Theyn asked, with a wan, faint smile breaking about her mouth. 

‘ Yes . . . how can I help it, when nearly every word has been 
caught up by him and set right ? . , . There’s a few words yet 


1 86 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUE 

that^s fearfully difficult. I think Pll never know how to use them 
properly.’ 

The conversation seemed trifling enough, but within the heart of 
each speaker some painful emotion was being crushed and hidden. 
Thorhilda knew more of Barbara’s suffering than Barbara dreamed 
of hers ; and now Miss Theyn’s sympathy was more open to detect 
the depth of emotion and pain, her thought more drawn to dwell 
upon it. Already she was beginning to learn the lessons that 
sorrow alone can teach. 

There had been another long pause, during which Miss Theyn’s 
thought had travelled rapidly, as thought always does travel when 
it is charged by the finer emotions. 

* And now tell me of yourself, Barbara,’ she said, speaking gently, 
and bending forward in the soft firelight till she seemed quite close 
to the pale, tired girl beside her. ‘ Tell mo of yourself. You have 
told me nothing, and Hartas has told me nothing. He said he had 
nothing to tell — nothing but disappointment and pain. . , . Can 
you not tell me how it is ?’ 

Barbara was silent for awhile ; then she lifted her wide blue eyes 
— eyes full of an inexpressible astonishment, an unspeakable 
sorrow. Did Miss Theyn yet understand no more than this ? 

In her perturbation, Barbara rose to her feet, feeling as if she 
must be away from this close and narrow atmosphere of misunder- 
standing. She could not go over all the old ground again now with 
Miss Theyn. Miss Theyn should not have required it— so it 
seemed. 

‘ I told your brother how it was,* she said, with dignity ‘ He 
understands, if anyone does. I am beginning to think no one can— 
that no one ever does enter into a life not their own ; no, not even 
to a life lived closest to theirs. But I must go home now, it’s late 
enough. . . .* 

‘ Stay a moment,’ Miss Theyn interrupted, leaving the room as 
she spoke. 

Presently she came back with some food on a small tray, which 
she carried herself, and she insisted that Barbara should eat of it. 

Then, to Bab’s distress, she heard the sound of carriage- wheels ; 
and Miss Theyn went with her to the door ; and the Canon was 
there ; and he was glad — truly glad that his niece should have been 
BO thoughtful. 

But while Barbara was being driven rapidly down to the Fore- 
cliff, Thorhilda Theyn was thinking more rapidly, more seriously 
than she had ever thought in her life before. 

‘ Was it true, all that Barbara had said, or rather intimated ; 
could it be really true that another— one who had occupied so much 
of her thought— was really caring, really sorrowing/or her, for her 
loss ! Alas, that it did not seem impossible ! Alas, that she should 
be drawn to dwell again and again upon the sweetness of another’s 
sorrow 1 


^ FAREWELL f 


187 


CHAPTEE XLIV. 

‘80 FAKEWELL THOU WHOM I HAVE KNOWN TOO LATE.’ 

‘ If thus to look behind is all in vain, 

And all in vain to look to left or right, 

Why face we not our future once again, 

Launching with hardier hearts across the main, 

Straining dim eyes to catch the invisible sight, 

And strong to bear ourselves in patient pain ?’ 

Christina Eossetti. 

It was not much more than a week after Barbara’s visit to the 
Bectory. The afternoon was cold and gray and wintry. The 
Canon had gone to the Bight, saying that he had some forty sick 
people on his list, and would therefore probably not return till late. 
Mrs. Godfrey, having a headache, had gone to lie down, and her 
niece, being all alone, tried various ways of passing the afternoon 
endurably. She found, however, that she was in no mood for prac- 
tising, none for writing letters, though there were many that she 
ought to have written. Within the past three days nearly twenty 
more wedding presents had arrived — to Mrs. Godfrey’s distress no 
fewer than eight carriage-clocks among them. In a humorous 
mood the Canon had wound them all, set them agoing, placed them 
in a row on the top of a cabinet in the drawing-room, where they 
stood chiming — one sweeter and more silvery in tone than another ; 
yet Thorhilda could not bear to hear them, nor did the idea of 
stopping them commend itself to her taste. She remembered that 
one of them had been sent by Lady Diana Haddingley — her Aunt’s 
friend rather than her own — and with the clock had come a long 
and kindly letter. At the end there was a postcript, meant mainly 
for Mrs. Godfrey. 

Thorhilda had seated herself by the writing-table in the drawing- 
room ? her intentions were of the best. One after another the 
clocks had chimed the hour of three. There was time enough to 
write a dozen letters before the post went out at five but, unfor- 
tunately, the topmost letter was Lady Di Haddingley’s, and the 
postscript arrested all Miss Theyn’s attention. 

‘ I hear that an old acquaintance of ours — Damian Aldenmede — 
is somewhere in your neighbourhood,’ Lady Di had written. ‘A 
friend — you will remember her — Lady Sarah Channing, declares 
that he has fallen in love with a fishwife, the mother of four or 
five children. The Channings have been staying for nearly a week 
at Danesborough, and Sarah wrote to ask me for your address. . , . 
Do, if you know anything of Mr. Aldenmede, tell me about him. 
He was a man I always had the highest admiration for, though I 
never felt that I understood him, though, perhaps, that was not his 
fault altogether. It is only like that can understand like, and there 
is no likeness between him and me. Perhaps I needn’t point that 
out if you have met him. What a fancy it is on his part to take to 


i88 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, 


painting in that vigorous way ! But then he never did things by 
halves. Sarah says the intimacy between him and the fishwoman 
began by his painting her, so I suppose she must be pretty. All the 
same, I hope there’s no truth in the rumour. Sarah was always a 
terrible gossip. Still there is no saying what a man like that will 
do who has gone through such seas of trouble. And I can easily 
imagine, now that his first youth has passed, that it is very probable 
that he may be caught by genuine sympathy, whoever may offer it 
to him. All the same, I shalP be glad to know that I have been 
misinformed.’ 

Mrs. Godfrey had read this aloud at breakfast-time, when the 
letters came in. Thorhilda had listened with burning cheeks, not 
daring to raise her eyes to her uncle’s face, How much he saw, 
how far he understood, who shall say T Perhaps he could hardly 
have said all himself. It may be that his thought went the deeper 
that his prayer became the more earnest. It is certain that the 
trifling episode did not pass over him lightly. 

Now that Thorhilda was alone, that she might read this gossiping 
postscript in silence, it seemed to have a thousand meanings for her, 
and some of them were meanings that she did not dare to look into 
— not closely, not truly. She could not answer Lady Di’s letter 
now ; and presently she became aware of the fact that she could 
answer no other letter. Leaving the room in a very tumult of per- 
turbation, she took the garden-hat that always hung in the hall and 
went out of doors. It was cooler there, arid freer, and fresher. 
She seemed able to think more truly, more clearly, out there among 
the leafless trees, that hung sadly and swayed softly, and lent an 
intensity of impressiveness to the always impressive scene. 

•For some time Miss Theyn walked there, now quiet and hopeful, 
now roused and excited, then suddenly depressed. She had almost 
forgotten the peacefulness that had been hers — not so long ago. 
For some time she had walked up and down the garden paths, pass- 
ing from one mood to another ; then at last the big iron gates at the 
bottom of the avenue swung open ; she could hear the sharp metallic 
click of them, and instinctively she recoiled. Percival Meredith 
had been at the Eectory more than half of the day before. Had 
he the deficient taste, the imperfect tact, to come . again to-day? 
Miss Theyn knew of no other visitor to be expected. 

Her surprise was at least as great as her emotion w as deep when 
she discovered Mr. Aldenmede coming up the avenue, slowly, and 
with the gait and movement of a man to whom all things were 
indifferent. 

When he saw Miss Theyn he came forward more quickly, raising 
his hat with an almost eager courtesy. In his worst moments 
instinct stood for something. 

Yet the meeting was not an easy one— how should it be ? Yet 
neither of them dreamed how difiicult the parting was to prove. 

It was evident to Thorhilda from the first that Damian Alden- 
mede was not in an ordinary mood. His face was paler, thinner 


‘PAREU^ELL/* 189 

than nsnal ; his gray eyes seemed more deeply set ; the lines about 
his mouth were sterner, colder. 

* Is Canon Godfrey at home ?’ he asked, without much appear- 
ance of interest in the answer. * I will not disturb him for long. 
I have merely called to say “ good-bye.” * 

Thorhilda understood all, the coldness, the depth of intensity 
behind this stiffness and rigidity of manner. 

‘ I am sorry she replied, using all effort to seem calm, and suc- 
ceeding beyond her own hope. ‘I am sorry, but my uncle is not at 
home. He will regret much when he knows that he has missed 
you. . . . Do you leave Ulvstan soon 

‘I go to-morrow.’ 

‘ So early !’ Thorhilda exclaimed, still endeavouring to keep her 
voice free from tremor, her manner from all agitation. ‘Is it 
sudden — your determination — or have you been thinking of it for 
some time ?’ 

‘ I decided last evening.’ 

‘ Oh ! . . . Will you come into the drawing-room ? My aunt is 
not quite well, but if I tell her that it is a farewell visit, I am sure 
she will wish to see you.* 

‘ Thank you ; I would not disturb her on any account. Please 
give her my kind regards, and tell her of my regret. I should have 
been glad to see her.’ 

These stiff civilities should have ended the interview ; but some- 
how they did not. Thorhilda did not turn away ; Damian did not 
offer his hand. For a strange moment or two they stood there by 
the top of the avenue, not looking at each other, not speaking ; 
hardly breathing. 

Thorhilda broke the silence, saying in tones that betrayed the 
effort she used : 

‘ Perhaps your absence may not be for long. . . . You are not 
leaving England ?’ 

‘ I leave England for Italy to-morrow night. . . . When I return, or 
indeed whether or no I return at all, must remain with the future.* 

Again for awhile there was silence ; a silence that would have 
been the end of the meeting if Damian had not raised his eyes to the 
beautiful face before him, discerning there much of the hidden pain, 
the hidden suffering. And as he looked he remembered the words 
that Barbara Burdas had said to him only the evening before, 
betraying much more than she knew that she betrayed. 

‘ She’s none happy,* Bab had said, ‘ not happy as she ought to be. 
Her eyes are full of dread and fear, as if she didn’t dare look into 
the future. And all about her mouth there’s the strangest trembling 
at times, just as if she’d be glad to lay down all her life, all her 
hope, at somebody’s feet, and die there. , . , Oh, don’t talk to me 
about her no more ; she’s none happy !’ 

It was just as Barbara had said in her expressive way. This was 

J *ust the look he saw on the face of the woman he loved, and had 
ost. 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


190 

No, he could not turn away ; not yet, not thus. The past days 
and nights of suffering seemed to be pouring all their painful 
energy into the present moment. Strong man though he was, his 
heart was beating wildly, his brain throbbing fiercely. Was it over 
— was it possible that it could be over, all the new sweet promise 
that had seemed to be sent as a kind of aftermath ; a blessing upon 
the later life of one whose earlier years had been all unblessed save 
for the benediction of sorrow ? Was it not rather a dream, a 
delusion, all that he had heard of her engagement, her intended 
marriage ? Had he indeed heard of these things from any authentic 
source at all ? The very question seemed perplexing, almost 
stupefying. 

It was the first word, the first question, that was difficult. 

‘ Is it true — is it all quite true ?’ he said, speaking with such 
evident effort, taking a tone so different to any he had used to her 
before that she could not but understand. 

She endeavoured to reply quietly ; and even in this painful 
moment the extreme graciousness of her manner, the unaffected 
truth of her soul, struck him afresh with fresh pain. 

‘ You are speaking of my engagement ?’ she said, raising her 
grave, gray eyes with all their burden of sadness to his. There 
was no pretence, no subterfuge. 

‘ Yes,’ was the brief reply. 

‘It is true.’ 

‘ You are going to marry Mr. Meredith T 

‘ Yes. ... I have promised to do so.’ 

There was no mistaking her tone — the sadness of it, the weari- 
ness. He understood as well as if she had knelt at his feet and 
there poured out all the tale of her confession. 

For awhile there was silence. Damian Aldenmede would not 
wrong himself, his own soul, by so much as one w'ord of congratu- 
lation, or anything that could be taken for such. Thorhilda under- 
stood. She understood also that no small or mean jealousy was at 
the root of bis silence, his reticence. 

A man like that to be jealous of such a one as Percival Meredith ! 
The mere irony of her own soul as the idea crossed her brain showed 
her more than she had seen before. Never till now had the wide 
disparity between the two men been so apparent to her. The hour 
was full of disclosures. 

'‘And it is done/^ she -said to herself, an aura passing over her 
like to that which passes over a human being when he is told that 
he must presently die from some secret ailment he had barely 
suspected. It is done ; it cannot be undone.^ 

And Damian Aldenmede also understood. 

The pallid lips and cheeks, the pleading look about the wild, sad 
eyes, the new gentleness where all had been gentle before — all these 
things told him that she w^as conscious of mistake, of error. 

Now he knew, as he had never dreamed to know, that he himself 
was not guiltless of her misery. 


^ FAREWELL P 


191 

‘I did it for the best — altogether for the best,* he said to himself 
as he stood there, staring intently into the depths of a white-edged 
holly-tree that stood upon the lawn, green, bright, glossy in its 
wintry beauty. Sparrows were darting in and out, a bold blackbird 
peered from an upper bough, starlings were whirring all about, from 
the garden-beds to the unused chimneys. 

‘ I did it all for the best. . . . But I did wrong— a wrong I can- 
not undo. No ; not by so much as a word, a lo-'k, may I now, or 
ever, attempt any undoing. It is with the smallest error as with 
the deepest sin — it may be repented of, it may be condoned, it 
may be forgiven — forgiven by God and by man — it cannot be un- 
done. And it is no alleviation of my suffering to know that I do 
not suffer alone — nay, it is an aggravation rather. . • , What can I 
hope — that she will forget, that she will be happy ? 

‘ Happy ! This woman happy with a man like Percival Mere- 
deth ! Good heavens ! What must her ignorance, her innocence 
be, since she can even have dreamt of it ? And they, her guardians, 
her natuiiJ; protectors — they must be as ignorant of evil as herself, 
of all that betrays evil, or they could never have done what I am 
persuaded they must have done — influenced her tovNards this 
marriage.’ 

They were sauntering about now, from path to path, silently, or 
all but silently. The remark as to the beauty of this evergreen, 
the failure of that, was not conversation ; something had to be said 
by way of escape from the awkwardness of perfect silence. 

More than once a time of perfect silence came. They were 
passing quite close by the drawing-room windows at one such 
moment. Two of the windows were open wide ; a sudden 
simultaneous sound of chiming came with a silvery, musical burst. 
At the first moment Damian started, fancying he heard some distant 
peal of bells ; but when peal followed peal, he turned to Thorhilda 
with a question on his every feature. To his surprise, she was not 
only blushing with a deep scarlet blush, but her eyes were suffused 
with tears that insisted upon falling. She could not hide them ; 
she could not explain them. 

‘I must say good-bye,’ she said, sobbing painfully, and bolding 
out a tremulous hand. ‘ Do not come in ! I wull tell Aunt Milicent 
-~i Will say aU you could wish. , . , Good-bye — and — and my best 
wishes.* 

She was still weeping, weeping bitterly, unrestrainedly ; and 
when Mr. Aldenmede took her hand in his, and held it warmly, she 
let it rest there for a moment or two. Nature had her way for that 
brief while. 

It seemed very brief to Damian Aldenmede. All at once some 
secret spring of strength gave Miss Theyn power to recover herself 
for the moment. Recollection, sudden shame — but a foretaste of 
that shame that was to overpower her afterward — these and other 
things became momentarily helpful. 

‘ Say good-bye/ she urged. * If you cannot congratulate me, you 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, 


193 

can at least wish me well — you can at least hope for me that when 
we meet again I shall be — be somewhat stronger ; that I shall 
disgrace the dignity of my womanhood less than I have done to- 
day.’ 

Mr. Aldenmede replied after a pause. 

‘ I know what you are anticipating/ he said kindly ; ‘ you can see 
already the hours of anguish, of self-reproach, that will follow this 
brief moment of weakness. I, too, know something of such hours. 
Every thinking human being has to know them, to suffer from 

them. It is only the utterly callous who pass through life able to 
put aside every pang that comes from the consciousness of error, 
of mistake. . . . But, believe me, all this will pass — it may be late 
— I fear it will — yet eventually it will pass, and leave you wonder- 
ing — not that you were moved so deeply, but that you should have 
been moved at all 

‘ Is that how the future seems to you ?* 

‘ It is how I should wish it to appear in your sight.’ 

Thorhilda bowed her head meekly, sadly, heavily. Life seemed 
over — all save endurance of living. 

It was then, in that moment, that there flashed across her mind 
the thought of one who, thousands of years before, had sold his 
birthright ; and a few seconds later the words of the truest of our 
Christian poets passed across her thought ; 

• We barter life for pottage, sell true bh'ss 

For wealth or power, for pleasure or renown ; 

Thus, Esau-Jike, our Father’s blessing miss. 

Then wash with fruitless tears our faded orown.* 

Could it be possible that she had done this — bartered her life, 
her soul, at four- and- twenty years of age ? And for what ? ‘ Good 
God ! for what f' she asked in all reverence, as she stood there. 

‘ If I had the strength of soul, the daring of spirit, I would at 
this moment tell all to Damian Aldenmede,^ she continued in the 
depth of her thought. ‘But I have not — how should I have, with 
the attention of a very world of people fixed upon my marriage — 
my mar|iage to Percival Meredith, and that within a month ? How 
could I dare to speak out all that is in me ?’ 

Thought passes swiftly. Only a few seconds had passed since 
Damian spoke his last kindly word. He was still standing before 
her, pale, quiet, self -repressed. 

‘ I suppose we must part,’ he said at last, looking into her eyes 
once more. 

‘But we shall meet again,’ Thorhilda said, trying to smile, but 
failing rather miserably. There was something in her face, her 
expression, that Damian Aldenmede could not bear to see just 

then. 

‘ We may meet again, we may not ; at any rate, we must part 
now^ he said, raising his hat and turning away. ‘ God bless you I’ 
was the last word that Miss Theyn heard from beyond the white- 


* UNSEEN FINGERS ON THE WALL: 


*93 

edged holly-tree Farther off it was repeated more fervently : 
‘ May God bless you !’ 

• o o • o 

The marriage-day was fixed ; it was to be on Tuesday, January 

nth. 

That Christmas was naturally a busy time. * Busy, and oh, so 
happy up at the Kectory I’ Miss Douglas declared .to friends who 
were not so fortunate as to be able to come and go at the Eectory 
when they chose. Miss Douglas was quite able to appreciate her 
privileges, and all appertaining to them. Moreover, whatever her 
lips might say, her eyes were not blinded. 

Yes ; certainly it was a busy time. Postmen and railway 
porters thronged the way at times ; so many letters came, so many 
parcels, that more tables had to be brought down from the upper 
rooms to hold the still accumulating presents. 

Thorhilda did not dare to say that each one was an added pang ; 
how could she, when almost every day Mrs. Meredith came with 
her son, each of them kissing the blushing, shrinking bride-elect on 
either cheek, each of them glad for the many tokens that betrayed 
such a deep and widespread regard ? 

Only one eye saw the true cause of the shrinking ; only one heart 
understood the meaning of the hot, painful blush. Only one man, 
comprehending all, feared, and suffered, and prayed in silence. 

And his prayer was answered ; but not as he had dreamt and 
thought it might be. 

In this very answer there was to be such a sting, such an agony, 
as Canon Godfrey had never in his life known. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

* UNSEEN FINGERS ON THE WALL.^ 

‘ With aching hands and bleeding feet 
We dig and heap, lay stone on stone, 

We bear the burden and the heat 
Of the long day, and wish 'twere done. 

Not till the hours of light return, 

All we have built do we discern.’ 

Matthew Arnold. 

Though the times were bad, ‘ very bad indeed,’ the fisher-folk of 
Ulvstan Bight said, yet some curious and not infrequent allevia- 
tions came in their way about Christmas- time. It was only natural 
that the Canon should interest himself largely in the matters of 
soup and Christmas beef, of blankets and coals it was only to be 
expected that Mrs. Godfrey and h^^r niece should drive down to the 
Forecliff almost every day with flannel petticoats, with knitted 
stockings — there were at least some half-dozen old women in the 
neighbourhood who were kept in fdll work from January to 
December of each year executing Mrs. Godfrey’s orders for stocks 

IP 


194 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


ings and socks. And then, too, there were the little frocks, tnade 
of snch ill-smelling brown winsey that the carriage window had to 
be kept open. 

‘ An hour in the sea-breeze of the Bight will blow all that away/ 
Mrs. Godfrey said, noticing her niece’s absolute faintness and pallor • 
and thf^n, by way of diversion, drawing her attention to the seemli- 
ness of the little garments, which had most of them been made by 
a clever tiny wbman, whom nobody ever called a ‘ dwarf ^ because 
of her perfect proportion. 

Miss Birkin had done her best for the children this cold 
Christmas- time. The little frocks were bright with scarlet braid 
and blue ; the little jackets were warm with red flannel linings ; the 
caps, the comforters, the muffatees, the mittens, the gloves, ah, how 
bright they all looked I and what pleasure they gave ! 

The Canon’s wife and his niece, driving back to Yarburgh 
Rectory, the carriage half-tilled with empty baskets and bags, 
should hardly have been silent or depressed. 

There was no mystery about all this. But when some large 
packing-cases began to arrive at Ulvstan, for the most part ad- 
dressed on the outside to Mr. David Andoe, and found to contain 
many smaller packages otherwise addressed within, a sense of 
wonder was developed very rapidly ; this largely because, so far, 
there was no clue to the sender. 

Ann Stamper, the landlady of the inn, a poor, ailing, worn-out 
old woman, who had a little packing-case of comforts especially 
directed to her, declared that nobody could have sent it save Lord 
Hermeston, of Hermeston Peel, who had taken shelter in her house 
one showery day, and had been so affable, so simple, as to win all 
the old woman’s warmest regard for him. But Ann Stamper was 
not the only one to whom the anonymous presents gave cause for 
mistake. 

Old Hagar Furniss found a waterproof basket at her door one 
morning, containing tea, and biscuits, and tinned meats of various 
kinds, with a big round plum-cake of such quality that Hagar 
declared, with tears in her eyes, that no bride-cake could ever have 
surpassed it. But this was nob all : warm scarlet flannel was there 
in sujBBicient quantity to last the old woman her lifetime, with a 
large eider-down counterpane, a thick rug for her fireside, some 
soft, warm brown woollen serge for a gown, and finally such a big 
plaided woollen shawl that the poor old creature declared she could 
, never know what it was to be cold any ricr% 

‘ Don’t tell me,’ the old fishwife said, her nead trembling more 
than usual in the depth of this new emotion. ‘ Don’t tell mo. 
him — it’s the Rector. Don’t sa 5 ^ it isn’t — for there’s nobody e’g^, 
nobody living, as ’ud know so e:iactly what an old woman like M 
ud want an’ crave for, an’ sit an’ dream of when the fire’s dyi:nf 
out of a night, an’ ya daren’t put a bit more coal on to keep y?- 1 
starvin’ for the dread o’ the next night seeing ye without an ounce 
o’ coal i’ the house ? . . . No, doq’t tell me ; ’twas him, an’ nobody 


‘ UNSEEN FINGERS ON THE WALLi tgs 

else. An’ may the good God reward him, for I can’t ; no, I can’t so 
much as say what it all means to me, leave alone thankin’ him. . . . 
Mebbe God ’ll thank him some day. There’s something like that i’ 
St. Mattha’. It’s the Last Daay, the Judgment Daay, an’ the King 
says : “ Acause ya did unto them,” meanin’ the poor, such as me, 
“ Ah reckon Ah’ll take it as if ya’d done it unto Me Mysel.”’ 

Here and there, all over the Bight, there were these pleasant 
touches of mystery ; and yet, helpful as they were, they could not 
altogether put a stop to the growing hardness of things — the in- 
creasing anxiety. Even in such homes as that of old Ephraim 
Burdas, that Christmas was a time of dread, of strain, of hand-to- 
hand fight with each sixpence that had to be sent out for food or 
*fire eldin.’ 

As a matter of course, Barbara had not been forgotten. Miss 
Theyn herself had come down one day with a closely- packed bag, 
which had seemed to the children standing round as if it were never 
going to be emptied. Toys were there ; chocolates (less tempting, 
because less known), sweets, paper bags full of toffee — made in the 
Rectory kitchen ; and then below came the warm, comfortable little 
articles of dress. But this was not all. Outside a hamper had been 
left, which Woodward had been told to unfasten, and then to leave 
it standing under the little porch. Bab saw it there when she went 
to the door with Miss Theyn. 

She had not seen it at the first moment. Ailsie had called her 
elder sister back entreatingly, only to whisper, in a curiously 
agitated way for so mere a child ; 

‘ Ask her to come again, Barbie, will you ? Do ask her to come 
again ! . . . It’s not the goodies. . . . Ah can’t eat ’em ; Stevie can 
— an’ Zeb, an’ Jack — but Ah noan care for ’em. But will you ask 
her to come again ? . . . She smiles so — doesn’t she. Barbie ? . . 
An’ she looks at ya so ! An’ her bonny white hands, and the way 
she has o’ touching things, oh. Ah do like to see her 1 Ask her to 
come again, Barbie !’ 

But whilst Barbara was putting the child’s request into words, 
her eye fell upon the hamper, as Miss Theyn saw, enabling her to 
speak of it in a careless, incidental way. 

‘ That is something from the Rectory,’ she said. ‘ I believe it is 
my aunt’s present to your grandfather.’ 

But Thorhilda perceived the momentary flush of pain that passed 
over the girl’s face. Barbara had always been so equal to the house* 
hold needs, that she could not bear that the truth should be sus- 
pected now ; nor was it, — no, nor anything near the truth. 

If anyone had approximate dreams, it must have been the sendei 
of the mysterious parcel that Bab found on the doorstep one morn- 
ing in Christmas-week — not that it was mysterious to her ; and all 
at once she saw to the bottom of the other mysteries that were 
happening all about. 

Yet, if he chose to do good by stealth, he should not be put to 
the blush of finding it fame by any word of hers. Doubtless Mr. 

Id— 2 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


196 

Aldenmede had sufficient reasons for wishing to seem a compara- 
tively poor man ; but no mau so poor as he chose to appear to be 
could afford to scatter gifts over a whole village in this prodigal way. 

‘ No ; I’ll not speak of it — not even to her’ Barbara said,- with 
tears in her eyes, as she stood contemplating the dozen new and 
tempting books that had been packed so carefully at the bottom of 
the case, and the pile of bright scarlet merino, evidently meant for 
Ailsie. 

How well she remembered his saying that he always felt grateful 
to any child who came tripping across his out-door vision in a scarlet 
frock or a scarlet cloak ! Ailsie should have both before he came 
again. 

Then thought itself seemed to pause. Would Mr. Aldenmede 
ever come to Ulvstan Bight any more ? With a sigh, Bab admitted 
to herself that it seemed impossible he should. 

He had not been happy for a long time before he went away — 
not even as happy, as equable as when he first came — and he had 
seemed a man of sufficiently saddened soul then. And Barbara 
knew all about the cause of his more recent unhappiness — how could 
she help but know ? 

And each time she saw Miss Theyn she saw more certainly than 
before that happiness was not there — not the happiness that should 
have been at such a time as this. 

Barbara saw no future ; how should she ? 

‘I suppose they were engaged before — Mr. Meredith and her. 
And then Mr. Aldenmede came, and she saw the differelice — ay, 
me ! how could she help ? Why, yon man at Ormston minds me 
of a peacock most of all ; he shines so, and he struts so, with his 
beautiful white shirtfront standing out in a bow before him — and 
him turning round in that slow, stiff way, as if he’d got to move 
altogether or not at all ; eh me, how could one like her ever demean 
herself to one like him ? an’ his hair turning gray ; and a big bald 
patch on the top of his crown already ! Eh, how could she ?’ 

But Barbara was just, and had to remember that Damian Alden- 
mede’s hair had at least a grayer look than Mr. Meredith’s had. 

‘ He looks as old, Mr. Aldenmede does, mebbe older — but it’s none 
the same sort of aging, not at all. Why, when he laughs, he laughs 
like a boy — an’ the other smiles as if he were ashamed o’ demeaning 
himself so far.’ 

Was it strange that just now Barbara Burdas should be drawn to 
dwell upon Miss Theyn so much ? Does it not often happen, all 
unknowingly, all unconsciously, that our thoughts, our very dreams, 
are drawn to those (near to us either by sympathy, or by relation- 
ship) who are passing through crises of which we are altogether un- 
aware, or have but the merest suspicion ? 

This fisher-girl of the Forecliff could really know nothing of the 
strife that was deepening day by day in the soul of Thorhilda 
Theyn. 

‘ Yet I cannot forget her ; no, not for an hour ! It is strange 


• UNSEEN FINGERS ON THE WALU 


197 

how T am always finding myself thinking of her I I wonder has 
she got any thought of me ?’ 

Inevitably Miss Theyn had thought of Barbara Burdas, ‘ many a 
time and oft.* How should it not be so ? 

‘ She loves Hartas — I know she does. I believe his love is 
precious to her ; yet she will not marry him, lest she should even 
seem to be self-seeking — lest she should even seem to desire to raise 
herself to a different social level ; to desire to find ease, and rest, 
and comfort, and what would perhaps even appear to her as luxury ! 
Barbara Burdas, fisher-girl as she is, will not even have it thought 
that she could sell her soul for a mess of pottage. And I . . , 
I . . . ? Good God ! what have I done ?’ 

There was no irreverence in Miss Theyn’s cry. She covered her 
face with her hands, and knelt by her bed in all the agony of know- 
ledge of error and mistake — irrevocable mistake. 

Every swiftly-passing day and hour increased the irrevocableness. 
Once there had been a chance. Until others knew, and added the 
pressure of their knowledge, their congratulations, there had surely 
been a way of escape. Now there was none ; and day by day the 
yearning grew — the longing to escape by any means. With each 
fresh wedding present, each new congratulation, each allusion to 
the coming event, she felt afresh the weight, the dread, it might 
almost be said the repulsion. 

It could not be that things should be thus with his niece and 
Canon Godfrey have no knowledge. It seemed to him now that 
he had had suspicion from the first. 

He could not ask her of her own feeling. It is strange how 
sometimes the fact of a deep affection, with all the sympathy, all 
the nearness that such affection means, will yet act as a barrier be- 
tween sensitive souls. There are things that it is easier to say to a 
comparative stranger than to a mother reverenced and beloved. 

Canon Godfrey’s eyes once fairly opened, he began to see much 
that he had been blind to before ; and for a brief time he withdrew 
himself, and lived as much apart from his household as was possible 
to him. He had a great determination to make. 

At last, one Wednesday afternoon — it was the Wednesday in the 
w^eek before the marriage, which was to take place on the Tuesday 
following — he asked his niece to go with him for a drive. It was a 
mild day for January. A gray mist was on all the land, rolling 
over the brown barren fields, over the leafless hedges, over the 
sparsely-scattered trees. 

‘ Where would you like to go ?’ the Canon said, taking his seat 
beside her in the open carriage. 

‘ Oh, to the Grange !’ Thorhilda replied. ^ Aunt Averil isn’t 
well, and Rhoda has a cold. We^must go and see after them.’ 

This was not what the Canon had wished, but he yielded ; and 
his yielding was a little fatal from his own point of view. He had 
no chance of driving along the moorland road above Ormston 
Magna, of looking down upon the house, the gardens, the wide 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


1 9$ 

lawns, the small but beautiful park, of leading the conversation 
from these to their owner, and from their owner to the future — 
his and hers. If the Canon had but known how his niece was de- 
siring it ! . How she -was yearning for help, for strength, for light I 
That was the worst — all seemed so dark now, so hopeless. 

The visit to the Grange was pleasanter than usual. Miss Averil 
Chalgrove was in her own room, and Thorhilda went up to see her. 
It was the one pretty room in the house — the only one where there 
was an v true feminine daintiness ; and^ Thorhilda was glad to see 
even that. 

‘ I wonder Rhoda is not influenced by your pretty room, Aunt 
Averil,’ she said, glancing at the elegantly-decorated toilet- table, 
the silver-mounted pots and bottles, the ivory-backed brushes, the 
mother-o’-pearl glove-boxes, etc., etc. 

It was not easy to see them all, the light being so exceedingly 
dim. Sunny as the afternoon was, the rose-red blinds were half 
drawn ; the lace curtains closed utterly. It was a most becoming 
light, however, as Miss Chalgrove knew. She was lying upon a 
sofa, with a pale-blue dressing-gown, elaborately trimmed with lace 
and ribbon, robing her from head to foot. A tiny table, with an 
exquisite little set of cups and saucers, was by her side ; and a vase 
with the loveliest white and yellow roses in it. Roses ! yes, and 
even orange-blossom, as Miss Theyn perceived to her agitation. 

‘ The room is moderately pretty,’ Miss Chalgrove admitted with 
a sigh ; ‘ but you know how it comes to be so. Half my small pos- 
sessions, nay, far more than half, are birthday or Christmas presents 
from the Haddingleys. They never forget me. I hear they have 
not forgotten you. What have they sent you, Thorhilda 

‘ Don’t speak of wedding presents, Aunt Averil, dorit ; I can’t 
bear it I’ the girl exclaimed passionately. ‘ I came here this after- 
noon to be free from it all for a while. . . . Please talk of some- 
thing else — anything. What is Hartas doing ?’ 

Miss Chalgrove w^as so overcome by her niece’s most unusual 
and most unexpected vehemence that she had to use both vinaigrette 
and fan before she could recover strength enough to reply. 

‘ You were always a strange girl,’ she said at last in faint tones. 
*I often think that you have had just a little too much prosperity, 
that life has come to you just a little too easily. . . . Ah me 1 if— 
if only some others might taste of such happiness as yours !’ 

Thorhilda was silent for a moment. Miss Chalgrove could not 
see in that dim rose-coloured light how pale, how rigid her niece 
had grown. But presently she felt her hand grasped warmly in a 
younger and stronger one, yet the grasp was tremulous. 

‘ Don’t speak to me of happiness just now. Aunt Averil ; do not 
speak to me of myself at all. Tell me how things are going on 
here. Uncle Hugh fancied there was improvement.’ 

‘Improvement, my dear! If you said revolution you would 
almost be within the mark. Why, only to-day your father and 
Hartas have gone to Danesborough, to a sale of cattle and farming 


* UNSEEN FINGERS ON THE WALLi 


199 

things. They have gone together, and for business purposes. Do 
you know all that that means ? I suppose you do not,’ Miss 
Chalgrove concluded, with tears in her eyes. 

‘ And things are really going better T 

‘ They are promising to go better ; that is everything. Hartas is 
just one of those people who can do nothing by halves ; yet I never 
thought I»3 had in him such a power of work, and of ability to or- 
ganize work, as he has displayed of late. Of course, I only hear of 
it all through your father and Rhoda ; but they seem as if they 
could not make enough of him now. . . . It is very strange 1 
Think of a crisis in a man’s life making such a change 1’ 

‘ But remember what a crisis it was !’ 

‘ I dare not remember ; I cannot, even yet. . . . Why, for nights 
and nights afterward I awoke screaming, and Rhoda had to come 
and sit beside me for hours together. Once your father came ; and 
immediately, as soon as he saw me, he sent Burden off for Dr. 
Douglas. And all that came of my suffering because of his suffering 
— Hartas’s. I had dwelt upon it so, imagined it all so vividly in my 
own brain, that I never slept without being instantly introduced to 
scenes of sea-suffering. It was terrible, oh ! it was very terrible ; but 
the curious part of it is that ever since that time Hartas has been so 
much more to me than he was before. I am not myself to-day, be- 
cause he is not here. I like to know that he is not far away from 
the Grange ; I like him to come to my room and sit for an hour or 
two at a time ; and you would not wonder if you saw him here 
by my fireside in the twilight. There is such a change ! It is not 
only that he looks paler, thinner, more refined, that he has gentler 
ways, quieter manners ; there is something beyond all that.’ 

Thorhilda mused for awhile, then she said : 

‘ Don’t you think that “ something ” may be love. Aunt Averil ?’ 

Miss Chalgrove knew what Thorhilda was meaning ; but she did 
not reply in her usual light and crude manner. Even to Miss 
Chalgrove there was a change in the atmosphere — a change for the 
better ; how much for the better who shall say ? 

* A little leaven leaveneth the whole.’ 

‘I know of what, or rather of whom you are thinking,’ Miss 
Chalgrove said at last, evidently speaking with some difficulty, and 
then pausing for a considerable time. 

At last, roused by the subject, she spoke with some vehemence. 

‘It pained me terribly at first,’ Miss Chalgrove said. ‘How 
should it not pain me, to think of my nephew, my only nephew, 
marrying a fisher-girl, a bait-gatherer I The mere idea was repul- 
sive in the extreme.’ 

‘ Have you ever seen Barbara Burdas V 

‘ No ; nor do I wish to see her. . . * I am told you have quite 
taken what people call a “ fancy ” to her.’ 

‘ That is hardly correct. I have been slow, extremely slow, to 
perceive that she is one of the best, one of the purest, one of the 
most high-minded women it has ever been my privilege to meet.* 


200 


IN EXCHANGE FOE A SOUL, 


‘ Eeally ! . • . And very pretty, I suppose T 

‘ Not pretty at all ; at any rate not now. Six months ago she 
had a sort of pink-and-cream freshness, and certainly her bright 
blue eyes were very attractive. All that has gone. She is thinner, 
and she looks faded ; and the light has gone from her eyes, except 
just when some emotion brings it back for a moment. . . , No ; 
of mere prettinesa Barbara has little left, I am sorry enough to 
say it.’ 

‘But all the while you are meaning that she has some stronger and 
deeper attraction ?’ 

‘ Yes ; that is just what I am thinking, but I cannot explain it. 
. . . Anyhow, I do not now wonder that one like Hartas should 
have been drawn to her. ... I have only seen it lately, but she is 
his superior in every way I’ 

‘ In every way ? But that is exaggeration surely Think of it, 
Thorda dear T 

‘ I have thought of it often. The girl has naturally the “ air ” of 
her class. For all her fine independence of spirit, she is yet want- 
ing in self-sufficiency, especially when anyone is present that she 
cares for ; but of this, of all this, one thinks nothing in her pre- 
sence. She stands there, dignified with a certain moral dignity — 
my uncle Hugh would say spiritual — and one is even conscious of a 
kind of inferiority, as if she were the superior. It is difficult to 
explain how, on the one hand, she seems wanting —just a little ; 
how, on the other, she surprises you with an almost overpowering 
sort of supremacy. You would never dare to utter a silly joke if 
Barbara Burdas were within hearing.’ 

‘ I don’t know that I am given to uttering “ silly jokes ” under 
any circumstances,’ Miss Chalgrove said, evidenuy, with her usual 
amusing egotism, having taken part of Miss Theyn’s remark in a 
personal way. ‘ Yet what you say interests me. I do not doubt 
but that it is partly her,influence that has wrought such a change in 
Hartas. And what a change it is 1 He is not the same in any sense 
of the word. From being the most absolute idler on the .face of the 
earth, he has become one of the most hard-working men I have ever 
known. And he must have some strong purpose in his brain to 
induce him to go on working thus. I cannot tell what it is. He 
has said that he has no hope of inducing the girl to change her 
mind. One cannot but be glad, very glad ; yet the matter is not 
without interest.’ 

‘ No, it is not without interest,* Thorhilda replied, with a certain 
dreaminess of manner which altogether belied the emotion in her 
heart. 

It seemed as if everywhere the strong, pure influence of a pure 
love was having a good effect upon others — ^upon all whom it 
touched save herself. And what was it meaning to her ? She asked 
the question with apparent sincerity. Yet she dared not look upon 
the answer. 


FROM A WEDNESDAY EVENING LECTURE. 201 


‘ I must make answer sometime/ she said, as they went home- 
ward, her uncle silent, absorbed, by her side. 

He, too, had seen much in the changes that were happening to 
make him thoughtful, yet far from unhopeful. Hay, it almost 
seemed as if his brightest outlook were here. The few moments 
that Thorhilda had passed upstairs with her valetudinarian aunt the 
Canon had spent with Rhoda; and he could not but discern 
the change that had passed over the household. It was visible in 
the aspect of the room, in Rhoda’s look and manner, and speech and 
appearance. 

* Sweet are the uses of adversity. 

Which like the toad, ugly and venomous, 

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.’ 

Such were the words that struck Canon Godfrey as he went home 
to his comfortable- seeming Rectory at Yarburgh ; a home that 
seemed to outsiders as if no cloud might ever overshadow it, no 
thorn come near any rose within its walls. 

All the way the Canon was silent ; all the way his niece was won- 
dering if she might make one more effort, one more attempt to con- 
fess her mistake, her misery, her dread. Then she remembered that 
it was Wednesday. 

‘ Uncle Hugh will be thinking over his lecture for this evening/ 
she said to herself. ‘ That is why he is so silent, so absorbed. I 
must not disturb him.' 


CHAPTER XLYI. 

SOME WORDS FROM A WEDNESDAY EVENING LECTURE. 

‘ For this I say is death, and the sole death, 

When a man’s loss comes to him from his gain.* 

Eobeet Browning. 

It was not by any means a studied informality that marked the 
Wednesday evening services at St. Margaret^s, yet the Canon had, 
with some care, decided upon the lines he wished to occupy. 

This pre-consideration notwithstanding, he found that experience 
considerably modified the rules he had laid down. To feel himself 
face to face with some dozen fishermen and their wives in the dim 
light of the nave of the old church on a winter’s evening was a 
moment sufiiciently realistic to call forth new effort, new sensitive- 
ness to the need of effort. In such hours as these Canon Godfrey 
felt always that the uttermost was demanded of him — the very best 
that he was prepared to give. 

And, conscientious as he was, often he knew that his preparation 
had not enabled him to meet the moment and its demand. Again 
and again he had to kneel at night, crying, ‘ My God, my God, why 
hast Thou forsaken me?' 

So it is that the saints of God are trained to their saintliness by 


203 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


the sense of failure, of inadequacy. It is not the man who makes 
the fair and truthful statement : 

‘ Lo these many years do I serve Thee, neither transgressed I at 
any time Thy commandments.* 

It is not this man whose career is held out for the encouragement 
of erring humanity. It is his younger brother, who could only cry, 
in the agony of conscious abasement : 

‘ Father, I have sinned against Heaven, and before Thee ; 

* And am no more worthy to be called Thy son . make me as one 
of Thy hired servants !’ 

It is this younger son who draws our sympathy, who claims our 
compassion ; it is here that we feel a true like-mindedness. In the 
worst moments we have known, has not this same Prodigal Son 
seemed also as a friend and a brother ? 

On this particular winter’s night— it was the fifth of January — 
Mr. Egerton had taken the service, the Canon remaining in the 
vestry till the end of it— an altogether unprecedented proceeding 
on his part. 

It was a dull, chill night ; and certainly not twenty people were 
scattered about in the gloom. The Canon came down the chancel 
steps slowly, looked about him calmly, sadly, then bowed his head 
in prayer for a moment or two upon the reading-desk, from whence 
he always gave his homely lecture. It was nearer to the people 
than the pulpit was ; and the position seemed to have less of for- 
mality about it. 

The church was large for the place— large, and old, and gray, and, 
notwithstanding restoration, somewhat dismal. Canon Godfrey 
tried always to refrain from seeing who might be present before 
him, and who absent. But to-night almost every face seemed to be 
im Dressed upon his vision in an instant. 

Each old fisherman he knew, each old or young fishwife — there 
might be ten of them altogether. Amongst them was the uplifted, 
appealing face of Barbara Burdas. And a little nearer to him— 
only a little, he had caught sight of the face of his niece, Thorhilda. 

He had not been sure as to her presence beforehand ; he had hoped 
for it ; he had let drop a w'ord as to his hope. And she w’as here. 

All alone she sat in a dim corner where the lamp-light did not 
fall. The old brown oak cast shadows about her ; her dress was 
dark and unobtrusive ; only her fuce seemed white — white, and sad, 
and still. 

While the Canon’s head was bowed in prayer, hers was bent too 
in all reverence. She did not lift her face till the preparatory 
silence was broken. 

Ihe Canon’s voice was lower than usual, sadder, more impressive. 

‘ As you know, my friends, it is not my usual way to take a text 
for these Wednesday-evening lectures; rather have I preferred a 
thought^ a quotation from some poet, an idea from some impressive 
writer. To-night I would go back to the old and time- tried plan ; 
1 would give you a text of the Holy Scripture. This text you will 


FROM A WEDNESDAY EVENING LECTURE. 203 

find either in the pages of St. Matthew, chapter 16th, and verse 26th, 
or in St. Mark, chapter 8th, verse 37th. . . , There is but little 
difference : — * 

* ** What shall a man give n exchange for his soul 

‘If yon turn to the New Version of the Gospels, you will find 
that the word “soul” is translated “life,” so that the question 
appears much less impressive : 

‘ “ What shall a man give in exchange for his life ?” 

* For mere physical life men have been drawn to exchange many 
things —honour, money, faith itself. The life of the body is 
precious to the most miserable among us. It is a first instinct to 
fight for it, care for it, protect it ; and that this instinct was thus 
strongly implanted in us for wise ends who can doubt ? There is 
even a sacredness — a most solemn sacredness— about the most pitiful 
human life. 

‘ What, then, shall we say of the soul — the souPs life — the life 
that is to know no ending ? Thought itself seems silenced while 
we ask the question : 

‘ “ What shall a man give in exchange for his soulf' 

‘ I think it possible that some of us may have read this text 
wrongly ; that we may have, understood it as if it were written : 

‘ “ What shall a man take in exchange for his soul ?” 

‘ It is as if the enemy of souls might offer us a kind of bargain, 
as doubtless often he does ; saying to this man, “ Will you take 
fame ?” to this, “Will you take riches?” to this, “Will you take 
the praise of men ?” 

‘ To some of us the voice of the tempter may come in tones of 
far lowlier seeming— he knows precisely where to strike. So to the 
man weary of strife he will offer peace ; to the woman worn by 
labour and care he will offer rest ; to the brain tried sorely by 
responsibility he will offer the means of luxury and ease, the most 
perfect cessation from all strain, all fear as to the future. It is 
this complete knowledge that renders him so formidable as an 
adversary. 

‘ Yet we are not defenceless. We are put on our guard from the 
first moment of capacity to distinguish between good and evil. 

* The question is writ large and plain : 

* “ What will you give in exchange for your soul ?” 

‘ What will you give ? 

‘It is a strange thought at first. Is a man’s soul not really his ? 
Must he buy it ? must he redeem it ? must he give something in 
exchange for it if it is to be really his own ? 

‘ The answer is. Yes / 

* You must woi'k out your own salvation, 

‘ Not the smallest thing worth having is to be had for nothing. 
Everything has its price, and the price is proportioned to the value, 

* Of course no complete sermon is intended here — this is no place for it 


204 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


What, then, is the value you put upon your soul — the part of yea 
that is to live for ever ? It must live for ever. How it is to live 
hereafter you must decide here ; this is the only time for decision. 
And if you fancy that you can defer the moment for deciding, 
believe me that is a mistake. While you are putting off from day 
to day, the spiritual laws that rule your spiritual life are deciding 
for you. The longer you leave your soul’s life to chance, the more 
difficult will you find it to take your rightful position again, 

• • • • • 

‘Even now, to-night, you are asked— not by me, but by One 
speaking through me — even now you are asked this question : 

‘ “ What will you GIVE in exchange for your soulf'^ 

‘ You must give something — that is the nature of your tenure ; 
and seldom, if ever, is it left to any of us to choose what we will 
give. As a rule something is put before us ; something that we 
know instantly to be a crux — a trial of our faith. 

‘ Daily we must give something ; hourly. “ Take up your cross 
daily and follow Me,” said the Master, speaking as none had ever 
spoken before, with a regal commandingness that drew all hearts 
capable of being drawn. It is so still. 

‘ “ I die daily,” St. Paul declares ; and in another place he said, 
“For we who live are delivered always unto death for Jesus’ sake ; 
that the life also of Jesus might be made manifest in our mortal 
flesh.” 

‘ Everywhere it is put before the Christian that the price he has 
to pay for his soul’s life is a daily death — a death to something 
more than what the world counts sin. 

‘ The words may seem harsh, the thought forbidding ; so they 
might be in reality, but for two things : first, the love that con- 
strains us, that is all about us, that is all within us, filling us with 
warmth, surrounding us with light. This love is the first and 
greatest thing that turns the true Christian’s sorrow into joy. 

‘ The second thought that should forbid the way of life from 
seeming a hard way is the certain and cruel hardness of the world’s 
way. Oh, my friends, believe one who has known all too much of 
what the world has to offer ; believe him when he says to you that 
its best is a hollow and bitter mockery of what you dream, of what 
you se^ I 

‘ “ What shall a man give in exchange for his soul 

‘ Ah, what is it that he accepts ? Unrest, wild, maddening unrest, 
where he had thought peace would be ; disappointment where he 
had dreamed only of fruition, the fullest fruition, of his every 
hope ; pain where he had felt sure of finding joy ; sorrow instead 
of gladness ; loneliness on the heights where love was to have met 
him ; humiliation where praise and honour were to have been ; 
thanklessness in the place of gratitude ; coldness and unkindness 
where friendship had held out both hands in token of warmth, and 
sympathy, and loving-kindnesi. 


hROM A WEDNESDA V EVENING LECTURE. 205 


• These are the things we accept in exchange for our soul. All 
too late we begin to find the truth. 

• For whosoever will save his life shall lose it ; but whosoever shall lose 
his life for My sake and the gospel's, the same shall save it. 

• “ For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and 
lose his own soul 

‘ What shall it profit him ? Oh, that we should need to wait for 
our dying hour to see this — to be able to answer this ! 

‘ Every day the question is asked of us, but to each one of us 
there comes a special hour of questioning. Sometimes it is early in 
life, sometimes late ; sometimes God in His mercy sends the ques- 
tioner “ Fate ” more than once. “ Fate,” one will say ; “ Circum- 
stance,” another. It is the same thing, “the Providence, the 
forethought of God.” 

‘ It is God taking care for your soul, for mine. 

‘ “ Be sure of this,” says a Christian writer yet hving, long distinguished 
for the purity and holiness of his living — “ Be sure of this, that if He has 
any love for you, if He sees aught of good in your soul, He will afflict you, if 
you will not afflict yourselves. He wiQ not let you escape. He has ten 
thousand ways of purging those whom He has chosen, from the dross and 
alloy with which the fine gold is defaced. He can bring diseases on you, or 
can visit you with misfortunes, or take away your friends, or oppress your 
minds with darkness, or refuse you strength to bear up against pain when it 
comes upon you. He can inflict on you a lingering and painful death. He 
can make ‘ the bitterness of death ’ pass not. We,. indeed, cannot decide, in 
the case of others, when trouble is a punishment, and when not ; yet this we 
know, that all sin brings affliction. We have no means of judging others but 
we may judge ourselves. Let us judge ourselves, that we be not judged. 
Let us afflict ourselves, that God may not afflict us.” 

‘ “ Let us afflict ourselves.” That is usually the meaning of these 
times of temptation. We are brought into a strait, asked what we 
will give to be delivered from it, and given free choice between two 
answers, often enough, God knows, almost equally painful. Then 
the result may safely be left to God Himself ; a God to Whom we 
have prayed, confessed, and before Whom we have laid all our 
straits and helplessness. 

‘ But more frequently it happens that our Temptation in the 
Wilderness — the wilderness of this wide, cold, unfriendly world — 
more frequently it happens that our temptation resembles His. 
On the one hand there is the offer of bread, of relief from hunger, 
symbolising deliverance from temporal care. Many of us are 
acquainted with that form of temptation, and to many of us it is 
the strongest of all. From the man with a little money, who is 
told that with that little he may “ grow money ” if he will but 
speculate, or gamble with sufficient unscrupulousness, from him to 
the man who can write a pure book, and is told, over and over again, 
that if he will but put the same talent or genius into a book more 
or less mpure, all the golden gates will be opened to him hence- 
forth— from the one to the other there is no wide stretch. The 
temptation is the same. 


206 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


• Yon have the stones,” this wily tempter points out. And 
you have the power to command these stones to be made bread. 
Why not ? It is a simple matter. The world that looks upon you 
now coldly, or shyly, or, at best, with hope that some day you may 
be worthy of its warm patronage, the same world would be at your 
feet if you did but issue the simple command to the stones before 
you that they should be made bread.” 

‘The second temptation, to spiritual power, comes seldom to 
ordinary men in these days. The time for its predominance has not 
yet arrived ; it is in the distant future, the far future, that this 
temptation will assail men more frequently, more fiercely, We 
have not arrived at that time, nor shall we ; not any of us who are 
living now. 

‘ “ I shall see it, but not now ; I shall behold it, but not nigh.” 

‘ The third temptation, to temporal power, is rife enough ; but 
it does not come so near, so strenuously, to most of us as the first. 
Yet the two are often combined ; then they are strong indeed. 
Who shall resist them ? 

o o e o • 

* Again the question comes, “ What shall a man give in exchange 
for his soul ?” 

‘ Most of us, at any rate many of us, would be ready to say at 
once : 

• ** Lord, I will follow Thee whithersoever Thou goest.** 

‘ But ah ! almost at the first step we stumble. The stones are 
hard, the darkness, the loneliness, the need of human sympathy 
and help make the way all too difficult, and we shrink back dis- 
heartened, dismayed, still farther even from being at peace with 
ourselves. 

‘ If now, just now in this hour of discouragement we are drawn 
up to some mountain-top of temptation, left alone there with the 
tempter, a tempter who offers us all the good things of this world, 
offering them in precisely the manner to suit our circumstances, our 
age, or inclination, how shall vve escape ? 

‘ How, indeed ? . . . First of all there must be a strong and clear 
sense of what yielding will mean ; what it must mean here, what 
hereafter. 

‘ And if there be any soul here to-night struggling alone on the 
barren mountain-top of temptation, struggling with the strange, 
dark form of evil which has been permitted to tempt mankind 
from the first created human being unto, undoubtedly, the last ; if 
there be any such here to-night, let him think, let him pause, now 
and here. In the name of God, I ask any such tempted soul to lay 
down his soul’s burden before Him who created that soul, and who 
knew of the burden, who pre-arranged it, even before the world was. 
Think of that ; that however keen, and bitter, and deep, and un- 
bearable your trial may seem, your Creator foresaw and arranged 
it all down to the last detaiL 


FROM A WEDNESDAY EVENING LECTURE. 20” 


‘ He knows what you will do. He knows whether you will stand 
or fall. 

‘ It may be that you have fallen. If so, the price to be paid in 
exchange for your soul will be so much the greater. 

‘ He knows’whether you will pay it, or whether you will exchange 
your soul instead of paying it. 

‘ Also He knows that He has put every inducement in your way 
While permitting temptation, as a sole means of spiritual growth and 
strengthening, He has urged the way of escape. The New Testa- 
ment, as the Old, is charged with the appeal, “ Why will ye die f 

‘ And yet we choose death. Thousands of us day by day are 
choosing death — smiling while we choose. And yet, behind the 
smile, what tears I 

‘ Again I will quote from that writer whose words of spiritual 
helpfulness I used but now : 

*“It is said that we ought to enjoy this life as the gift of God. Easy 
circumstances are generally thought a special happiness ; it is thought a 
great point to get rid of annoyance or discomfort of mind and body ; it is 
thought allowable and suitable to make use of all means available for making 
life pleasant. We desire, and confess we desire, to make time pass agreeably, 
and to live in the sunshine. All things harsh and austere are carefully put 
aside. We shrink from the rude lap of earth, and the embrace of the elements, 
and we build ourselves houses in which the iiesh may enjoy its lust, and the 
eye its pride. We aim at having all things at our will. Cold, and hunger, 
and hard lodging, and ill-usage, and humble offices, and mean appearance, are 
all considered serious evils. And thus year follows year, to morrow as to-day, 
till we think that this, our artificial life, is our natural state, and must and 
ever will be. But, 0 ye sons and daughters of men, what if this fair weather 
but insure the storm afterwards ? What if it be that the nearer you attain 
to making yourselves as gods on earth now, the greater pain lies before you 
in time to come, or even (if it must be said) the more certain becomes your 
ruin when time is at an end ? Come down then from your high chambers at 
this season to avert what else may be.’* 

o o o o o 

* There is yet time, yet, even yet, to answer the question, “ What, 
will YOU give in exchange for your soul ?’ 

‘You may yet say, ‘‘I do not care to buy my soul. I will give 
nothing. I will buy my life. I will give one sort of happiness 
for another sort. I am doing this consciously. But as for my 
soul, that is a question that at least may be deferred. There is 
always hope for one’s soul. The thief, dying on the cross, had hope 
that he might be saved.’ 

‘ So he had. “ This hope was given to one man that not one 
might despair ; it was given hut to one^ that none might presume.’ 

‘ But few of us, very, very few are so presumptuous as to reply 
thus ; “ No ; we will give ourselves to God when this crisis is over, 
or that.” Not next year, but this ; not next month, but this ; 
sometimes not even to-morrow, but to-night ; this very night, when 
we kneel for our last prayer. 

‘ Then why not now, this hour, this moment ? Why not— oh I 
why not surrender at once V 


2o8 


JN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


The Canon had spoken the latter words tremulously, beseechingly ; 
with his last cadence his voice had broken pathetically. , , , It was 
evident that he could say but little more. 

The last words he had said were yet lingering on the ear of each 
listener. The candles were flickering and dying in the tin sconces ; 
a chill wind was wailing outside, shivering up the wide gray aisles 
of the church. 

Wilder and wilder the wind clamoured round the old gray tower ; 
dreary and yet more dreary it came wailing up the silent aisle. 

Once more Canon Godfrey broke the silence, saying, in low, 
penetrating, fervid tones : 

‘ Think of this. I beseech you, think of it — 

• “ What will you give in exchange for your soul V* * 

Another moment, the moment following this plea, there was 
silence. 

Then a cry rang through the church — a sudden, thrilling, 
despairing, appalling cry — such as few of those who were listening 
then had ever heard before. For a moment, a long moment, so it 
seemed to Canon Godfrey, no one stirred ; no one dared to stir. 
The Canon himself could not. He bowed his head once again upon 
the desk, expecting to hear the cry repeated ; but no repetition 
came ; instead, he heard a low, intense, irrepressible sobbing. 

Did those few uncultured people understand ? One by one, they 
left the place. Mr. Egerton went to the dim corner, where a figure 
knelt in a very agony of mental pain, not even yet to be subdued 
by any mere effort of will. 

Mr. Egerton did the best thing he could do. He knelt by the 
sobbing, suffering woman ; awhile he knelt in silence, then in an 
audible whisper he prayed. And his prayer brought help and 
strength. 

‘ I will go home with you. Miss Theyn, if you will permit me,' 
he said at last. ‘ The Canon will follow. I do not think he will go 
to the Eectory for some time yet.’ 

Mr. Egerton’s surmise was correct. Till long past midnight the 
Rector of Market Yarburgh knelt and prayed in the chancel of the 
church he loved so well. In a very agony of prayer he knelt, and 
his prayer was for the most part a prayer of intercession. That 
prayer may not be written on this page. It is written otherwhere 
— in the book that is open before the Great White Throne. 

CHAPTER XLYII. 

IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT. 

* God answers sharp and sudden on some prayers, 

And thrusts the thing we have prayed for in our face, 

A Gauntlet with a gift in it.’ 

Fi. B. Browning. 

Not a moment — not one moment might be given to deliberation. 
Thought would undo alL 


IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT. 209 

‘I have thought too much,* Thorhilda Theyn said to herself, 

‘ Now I must act.’ 

Endure long as we may, long as we can, if at any time we deter- 
mine to cease from endurance, there is always a determining cause. 
As a rule this cause comes suddenly ; as a rule it is a trifling one ; 
very trifling if compared with our months or years of suffering. 

The working-man who strikes his wife — perhaps half murders 
her — and so brings himself into public disgrace for the remainder 
of his life, because his dinner was not ready at the time he needed 
it, may perhaps not have known for years past what it was to have 
a meal decently cooked, and ready in time. All his years of patience 
go for nothing in a moment, so far as the world is concerned. In a 
dim and dumb way he may thank God in his prison-cell that there 
is another world, but he is not very likely to know much of thank- 
fulness of any kind, any more than his wife will know of remorse 
or of repentance. 

No, the remorse must be all his, who forgot himself after long 
years of patient endurance ; and largely the feeling is born of what 
he knows the world to be feeling toward him. He had a trifling 
grievance to bear for once^ and he struck a helpless and defence- 
less woman. Such is he in the eyes of the little world all about 
him. 

It is a typical case ; there are thousands such — thousands that 
would show how one moment will undo all that years have done. 

Such a moment had come to Miss Theyn, of all people one the 
most ill-adapted to bearing it. That cry in the church — that 
piercing, bitter, betraying cry — had undone all. She did not once 
think of it — not with anything like deliberate thought — yet her 
very brain^seemed on fire with the sound of it. Think of it ! She 
was possessed by it. All th^ world — all the little world about her 
— would know to-morrow. They would know of her scream, how 
it had pierced her through and through till she could bear no more. 

All round her room there were preparations for the following 
Tuesday — the day that was to have been the wedding-day. Her 
wedding-gown hung in the wardrobe — a rich, lustrous dress of 
white silk, and lace, and ribbons, and flowers. Her bridal veil, with 
its wreath of orange-blossoms, lay carefully folded by her aunt’s 
own hands in the drawer below, folded and covered with white 
tissue paper, that it might not be seen or touched any more till the 
eventful morning . On the dressing-table was the box which Percival 
Meredith had brought only the day before for her acceptance. It 
contained a necklace of family jewels, diamonds, and pearls, which 
he had had reset for her. They were very beautiful ; she had 
admired them ; she had put the necklace round her throat for her 
aunt Milicent to see whether it fitted well, and she had felt a 
momentary pleasure in them. Now the mere outside of the case 
was an added pang. 

Close to it was another case, containing the four lockets, the four 
bracelets for her bridesmaids. These had been brought for her in 

14 


210 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


spection only. They were Percival’s presents— lockets and bracelets 
of gold, with a monogram on each in pearls and turquoise. What 
would Gertrude Douglas say ? What would Maura, and Helaine, 
and Clarimond Thelton think ? These were the four girls she had 
herself asked tp stand beside her at the altar next Tuesday — less 
than a week hence. What would it be possible for them to think 
or say ? 

On reaching theEectory, Miss Theyn had dismissed Mr. Egerton, 
not ungratefully. 

‘ I know now that you have seen, have understood all,^ she said, 
yet in a state of extreme nervous agitation, as he perceived ; ‘ but 
do not think too hardly of me. Try to think the best you can, will 
you r 

‘ I hope I am not given to thinking hard things of anyone. If I 
tried I should never be able to think other than kindly of you. . . . 
But — may I say it ? may I speak as if I were your brother ? — will 
you not reconsider, even now T Such things have been done before 
to-day.^ 

Thorhilda held out her hand. ‘ Thank you I Good-night I good- 
bye ! Again I thank you 

Going indoors, she had sent a message to her aunt, simply saying 
that she was not quite well and would go to her own room. 

Mrs. Godfrey had no suspicion ; she sat reading, waiting for her 
husband’s return, and finding he did not come, she supposed that he 
had been sent for to see some sick person. That happened so often 
that she was quite accustomed to it. ‘ I will go to bed,’ she said tc 
herself at last, ‘ but I must see how Thorda is first;’ 

Thorhilda’s door was unfastened. Mrs. Godfrey tapped, and 
then went in as usual. Even now there was nothing to arouse 
question. The room looked as it had done for some weeks past — 
a little crowded, a little disarranged. Her niece was not in bed. 

‘ How is this, dear ?’ she said, going round to the sofa, where a 
pale figure sat, with clasped rigid hands, white set face, and eyes 
that seemed to burn in their brilliance. ‘ How is this ? I thought 
you had gone to bed long ago, and I would nox disturb you. What 
IS it ? The old enemy — a bad headache 

‘ My head does ache, I think.’ 

‘ Be thankful, darling, that it isn’t your Ueart that aches,’ Mrs. 
Godfrey answered, certainly not meaning to be unkind, and not 
dreaming that she could be unperceptive. 

To Thorda the speech was as if someone had cast a stone at her. 
For one moment — one wildly agitating moment — she had had an 
impulse to throw herself at her aunt’s feet, to confess all, beseech 
her aid ; but a second glance at the tall, stately figure, at the 
beautiful, undisturbed, unperceptive face, the blue eyes that could 
change and look cold and surprised, even angry — this second glance 
made the suffering girl shudder to xhinK of her impulse, and the 
^consternation that would have been had she obeyed it. Befides, 
here was the strong conviction that no good could come of any 


IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT. 


SlI 


snch betrayal. * I should have been over-persuaded. • , • All chance 
of escape would have been at an end.’ 

‘Do go to bed, dear,’ Mrs. Godfrey urged. ‘Yon are looking 
quite worn. This will never do, and the llth so near I By the 
way, have you seen the parcel that came to-night ? It came whilst 
you were at church. No ? I fancy it is from Lady Margaret ; it 
is certainly like her handwriting. I should not wonder if it is an- 
other silver tray — it looked like that. What a pity it is that so 
many of your presents are duplicates !’ 

Thorhilda did not reply ; she felt her heart hardening under this 
unseeing gentleness of speech and manner. One word^— one under- 
standing word — and that night’s work — that sad night’s work — had 
never been done. 

But the word was not said. Mrs. Godfrey went away, offering 
to send tea, sal-volatile, wine and hot water ; but these were not 
the things her niece was needing. With a warm, loving kiss, a 
word of benediction that seemed to have no blessing in it, Mrs. 
Godfrey parted from her niece. For a long while Thorhilda sat by 
the fire in silence. Thought itself was silent — she dared not think. 

Some time after midnight she heard her uncle opening the door 
of his study. Her heart beat the quicker for the sound. No 
shadow of resentment crossed her mind — nay, rather did she feel 
sorrow, regret for the pain she knew she had caused to him. His 
intention had been of the best. He had been moved to speak thus 
by his conscience ; by the highest and holiest influences acting upon 
his sensitive soul. And he could not have dreamed of any such 
result as that which had actually happened. 

What had he dreamed of ? 

Had Miss Theyn once asked herself this question, once tried in 
solitude and quietness of soul to answer it, she must have been im- 
pelled to a mood different from that which was dominating her 
now. 

One idea had entered into her soul, taken complete and absorbing 
possession of it, as she left the church ; and nothing since had 
shaken it, or lessened its persistent weight. 

There was only one way of escape, only one ; and this she must 
follow. 

‘ What shall a man give in exchange for his soul ?’ 

All night the words rang in her ears : while she sat watching the 
flickering blaze of the fire : while she knelt by her bedside, in dumb, 
wordless prayer ; while she paced to and fro across her room ; ever 
and again between the wailing of the winter wind there came tho 
words, coming like a cry, a plea : 

‘ What will you give in exchange for your soul ?’ 

And now her answer was ready. 

‘ I will give all, 

‘ I will sacrifice this prospect that has seemed so much tome; 
and in doing so now I must pay the price for the sin of indulging 
in it so often j the sin of yielding to a temptation that I knew— 

14—2 


211 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUE 


that all the while I knew to be a temptation — tempting me from 
the right — and for what ? . . . For these ?’ she said, looking round 
upon the costly jewellery, the splendid dress. ‘ Was it possible that 
I could be so drawn away /or these f 

No ; in a calm moment she was constrained to admit that it was 
not mere finery, not mere luxury, that had been her temptation. 
There had been many things beyond, a multiplicity of ideas merging 
in one. There had been the dread of an uncertain future : with the 
sight of Garlaff Grange and its unlovely, unseemly poverty on the 
one hand ; of Ormston Magna and all its graceful and artistic ease 
on the other. 

‘ I was tempted, and I fell.’ 

That was all she could say now. * I have been tempted, and I 
have fallen ; but I will fall no farther. There is one way of escape, 
only one, and that one, agonizing though it be, I will take. . . I 
must take it . . . There is no other way.’ 

All these things were said as one speaking in a kind of trance 
might have spoken. That moment in the church had marked a 
certain amount of disorganization of the brain. 

A discerning man, a psychologist as well as a physiologist, said 
some time ago that from the first betrayal of temper on the part of 
a wayward girl to the last raving of the ma: :ic in the cell of a 
lunatic asylum there is no break, no missing link in the chain of 
aberration. This is not understood as it ought to be. There is only 
One who understands. 

We blame this man for this divergence from what we conceive 
to be right ; that woman for that ; while all the while, what 
know we ? 

When Christ forgave the woman taken in sin, brought before 
Him by vehement accusers, doubtless these same accusers were 
startled 


• 1 do not condemn thee. Go, and sin no more.* 

So He spake ; but there was none left to hear this conclusion. 
Self -condemned they Bad gone out from His pure Presence. 

They had perceived that He understood ; that not only His com- 
passion, but His comprehension, passed far beyond theirs. They 
were silenced. 

One cannot help somewhat envying that sinful woman. Her sin 
was understood / and it was not condemned. 

‘We, even toe, pardon all that we comprehend,’ says the old 
French proverb ; and, ah, the truth of it I 

We comprehend so little. We see the sin, but not the temptation. 
We witness the fall, but not the oft-repeated, and greatly-prolonged 
strife which has preceded the fatal moment. 

It was Thorhilda Theyn’s misfortune that in this hour of her 
deepest trial she had no friend to whom she could turn in all her 
weakness, all her despair, aU her sense of wrong-doing, and say, 
‘ Forgive me, save me ; help me to save myself !’ 


IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT. 


«3 

Only one thing she had strength to resolve upon : she would sin 
no farther, not in the same direction. If the idea she was now re- 
solved to carry out was also a sin, surely it were a more venial one, 
surely it were more easily forgiven, since it involved such desperate 
pain. 

So the night passed, not in thought, not in prayer, but in a dull 
mechanical semblance of each. 

It was some hours past midnight when at last she sat down by her 
writing-table. 

‘ I must at least say “ good-bye,” dear Aunt Milicent,' she began. 
‘ And I must ask you to forgive me. This will seem like terrible 
ingratitude for all that you have been to me. I dare not think of 
it, of all that I know you will suffer. Yet no one can blame you. 
As for dear Uncle Hugh, I must not let myself think of him. Yet 
xt isf/iis doing. He has saved me. It is his word that has helped me, 
given me back the power to see things in their true light. . . . And 
there was no other way of escape but this — at least I cannot see any 
other. How could I remain here with that day, that dread day so 
near, and refuse to keep my promise ? All the world about me 
would have thought me mad. I had no excuse for further delay, 
not one ; and as for breaking off the engagement now^ when all is 
ready down to the ordering of the last dish for the breakfast, and 
yet remaining here, you will see for yourself how impossible that 
would have been. No ; I have no resource but this. . . I cannot 
write of it. ... I can write no more of anything. My brain is 
strangely tortured. It does not seem my own^ but someone else’s 
brain — one that I cannot understand. Yet it seems that I must 
obey its dictates, write what it bids me write, do what it bids me 
do. . . . Again I entreat you to forgive me, and if you can, forget 
me. Dear Aunt Milicent, I never loved you more than I do at this 
moment, believing that I shall never see you again. How good you 
have been to me I how kind I Will anyone ever care for me again ?* 

This was her weakest moment. Her hand trembled so that the 
words were nearly illegible ; yet no tears came, no sobs. She sat 
on, listening to the wind as it wailed round the house, tossing the 
trees close to her window, moaning in the casement. Then came 
a soft sudden dashing as of snow upon the window-pane ; yet she 
hardly heard it, or, hearing, did not recognise. 

So the night went on ; passed in an agony so intense as to be most 
mercifully benumbing. 

When or how any purpose shaped itself in her mind she could not 
afterward recall. She had no remembrance of ever having looked 
into that future that was not terrible, only because it was not 
visible. 

She had sinned ; and after sin punishment was sure to follow. 

‘ Be sure your sin will find you out.’ Not, ‘ Be sure your sin will 
be found out.’ Sin often is not ‘ found out * of others ; but it finds 
one’s self ; and shows no mercy in the finding. 

But not even yet was the sense of wrong-doing Thorhilda Theyn’s 


214 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


worst trouble. Full knowledge, full consciousness, could 3nly come 
with the return of the fuller tide of life. The hour for the utter- 
ance of the exceeding bitter cry of a perfect repentance had not yet 
struck. 

And now the night was almost gone ; there was a faint light 
showing through the curtains when Miss Theyn once more took up 
her pen to add a final word. 

‘Again “good-bye,** again I ask you to forgive me. If I knew 
aught of my future I should think it best for you that I should keep 
silence. If you know nothing people cannot torture you to confide 
in them. (I am not meaning anyone in particular.) But I could 
not tell you if I would, for I know nothing myself. I know nothing 
but that I am leaving the happiest home that ever anyone had. 

‘Dear Uncle Hugh, what it is to leave you ! to go out into an un- 
known world ! . . . I dare not think ! # • < Once more “good-oye.” 
You can yet pray for your unhappy 

‘ Thorda.’ 

o o e o e o 

About half an hour later a figure in a gray cloak and closely fit- 
ting bonnef and veil passed out from the front-door of Yarburgh 
Rectory into a world of such wild whitening beauty as is seldom 
seen. Every tree in the garden stood in radiant white, each tiny 
branch with each of its curves fully developed against the deep 
indigo of the snow-laden sky beyond. The flakes were falling 
slowly, sadly ; the wind wailing less wildly and wearily ; yet it was 
a chilling wind, and swept through the very heart of the carefully 
nurtured girl who strove even in that hour of abandonment not to 
betray herself to herself by yielding to mere physical weakness. 

‘ Life can no more be what life has been,* she said to herself. ‘ I 
must learn to strive, to endure.’ 

So saying, she came to the big iron gates. It was a difficult 
matter to open them, to pass out, with snow under her feet, snow 
and wind driving overhead. And just then a sudden squall arose, 
seeming as if it swept upward from the great gray sea that lay 
darkling under the stormy snow-cloud. Wildly and more wildly it 
swept through the leafless trees ; the accumulated snow came down 
in avalanches upon the slight gray figure that struggled onward 
with such bravery as might belong to a broken heart. In that hour 
life itself seemed over. All that could remain, at the best, would 
be endurance. Why live, only to endure ? Surely there was a 
limit to human suffering ! 

‘ I would be content to diej nay, glad to die,^ she said to herself, 
still striving with the bitter wind and the driving snow. ‘ Stiong 
men have died thus, beaten to their death by merciless storms. 
Why cannot I die ? I should be so glad, so very glad to lie down 
under the nearest hedgerow, and so “ swoon on to death.** ’ 

Yet she strove onward ; some principle and instinct of life 
within her urging her to strive. 


THE DA Y THAT CAME AFTER. 


215 


So striving, the dawn-light slowly growing, the cruel storm in- 
creasing, she passed on, on beyond Yarburgh ; far above the Bight 
of Ulvstan where the white water was breaking upon the scaur. 
Still onward she strove, and whither she went, none knew. 


CHAPTER XLVIIL 

THE DAY THAT CAME AFTER, 

• *Tis when we suffer gentlest thoughts 
Within the bosom spring.* 

Fabeb. 

It was a wild tempestuous morning. The snow swept past the 
window-pane, the outside world was blotted from siirht, the trees 
were snow-laden to the smallest branch ; and yet the flakes kept on 
falling, now wildly, now madly ; now gently and softly. Looking 
upward, all was gray, and dim, and formless : looking below, all 
was white, and soft, and lovely and entrancing. 

‘ One is almost glad to see it, for a change,' Canon Godfrey said, 
rubbing his chill hands one over the other. For nearly an. hour, he 
had been reading in a fireless room. ‘Yet how carelessly one says 
that !’ he added presently. ‘ One does not think, at first, of all that 
frost and snow must mean down in the Bight. . , , God help them 
all ! How good they are, for the most part ; how brave, how 
patient !' 

Still the big white flakes came whirling down, hiding the white- 
edged holly-tree : the tall cedar beyond, the dark Scotch firs that 
yet retained their picturesque form. Indoors all was perfect in 
the way of contrast. A large coal fire blazed vigorously ; the lamp 
burned under the coffee-pot, warm dishes were appearing one after 
another upon the table — muffins, toast, eggs, grilled chicken. 

‘ Why doesn't Thorda come ?’ the Canon said at last, not speaking 
with quite his usual easiness. His remembrance of the night before 
was still too strong upon him for ease. 

‘ We will not wait, Hugh dear,’ Mrs. Godfrey said. 

She was not angry, not displeased ; yet in no way was she 
touched to any unwonted forbearance. 

‘ But it is not usual for her to be late I’ her husband urged. 

‘ All the more reason why we should give her a little grace when 
it does happen,’ Mrs. Godfrey replied lightly. 

She spoke quite lightly and carelessly, and breakfast was begun 
and ended without further remonstrance on the part of Canon 
Godfrey ; but when he rose from the table he sent a message to 
his niece. Her aunt desired to know whether she was well 
enough to come down, or whether she preferred to have breakfast 
in her own room. Quite thinkingly he sent the message in his 
wife's name. He had not now to discern that there was some little 
rift with’*? tha lute that once had made only such sweet and 
pleasant 


2i6 


IN EXCHANGE FOE A SOUL. 


He felt a strong wish to see his niece again before going back to 
his study, to judge for himself as to how the distressing occurrence 
of the previous evening had added to the unhappiness he feared 
she had had before. He had not mentioned that sad moment to 
his wife, and since she had not mentioned it to him, he knew that 
Thorhilda had not cared to seek her aunt’s sympathy. He under- 
stood his niece’s reluctance to meet him ; and he knew that it 
would be better they should meet at once, and in the presence of a 
third person. He was sorry that she had not come down as usual. 
It is always best and easiest to take no outward notice of an 
awkward moment. The inner soul is stronger for the external 
reticence. 

It was Ellerton who had taken the Canon’s message to Martha, 
the girl who waited upon Miss Theyn. It was Martha’s answer 
that Ellerton brought. 

The man entered the room, and stood for awhile by the side- 
board with a strange look on his face. 

‘ Well I’ the Canon exclaimed, in an almost amused surprise. 

He was not accustomed to see the somewhat loquacious Ellerton 
pale and speechless. 

‘ She’s not there, sir — Miss Theyn ; she’s not there 1 ’ the man 
said at last. 

‘ Not where ? . . . Where have you been ? What’s the matter 
with you ?’ was the impatient questioning. 

‘Martha went upstairs, sir — she went to Miss Theyn’s room I 
• . . And the bed ! ... It haven’t been slept in, sir !’ 

A few seconds later Canon Godfrey himself stood gazing upon 
the bed where his niece should have slept. His wife was close be- 
side him ; with pallid faces they looked upon each other, and had 
no strength to speak. 

They entered farther into the room, looked round upon the 
dainty, feminine arrangements. Some of the wedding presents 
were there ; the case containing the diamond necklace had been left 
half -open ; the lockets and bracelets for the bridesmaids were in 
their cream coloured velvet tray. The door of the wardrobe had 
been left open ; the glitter of the white dress showed in the gray 
light ; a spray of orange-blossoms festooning some tulle was visible. 
A rose-coloured dressing-gown was lying over a chair in front of 
the long-dead fire ; a pair of tiny woollen slippers were set up 
against the fender ; a prayer-book lay open upon the white 
coverlet of the bed. 

It was the Canon who saw Thorhilda’s letter lying upon the 
writing-table. It was addressed to his wife ; yet he knew that he 
should be sparing her if he opened it and read it. Quite calmly he 
read on from the first plea to the last, from the first confession to 
the last betrayal. 

‘ Dear Uncle Hugh, forgive me ! What it is to leave you, to go 
out into an unknown world I ... I dare not think !’ 

Canon Godfrey read a part of the letter to his wife j she begged 


THE DA Y THAT CAME AFTER. %vj 

to be allowed to see it, to read it herself ; but this he would not 
permit. 

‘ There is nothing in it you need to know, dear ; trust me for 
that, can you not ?’ 

‘ Trust you I There is no one, no one else in all the world I can 
trust, ^ she said with tearful eyes and trembling, hardly restrained 
lips. ‘ But Hugh, my darling Hugh, you will bring Thorda back ? 
You will not let her go ? ... We will persuade her, we will per- 
suade him ; there may be delay ; there must, I fear, be pain and 
even exposure. But it will come right in the end. Say that it 
will ! She cannot— she cannot be meaning now, at this eleventh 
hour, to say that she will not marry Percival !’ 

The Canon sighed. Would his wife never understand ? Within 
himself, and unknown to himself, he dreaded the labour of trying 
to bring about a full and clear comprehension. And in truth it 
was a difficult task. When all was done that might be done, all 
said that might be said, Mrs. Godfrey was still irrational, uncon- 
vinced, more or less hopeful. The Canon could only sigh and 
turn away. 

‘ What are you going to do, Hugh dear T she asked plaintively. 

‘ What can you do ? You have no clue V 

‘ None whatever so far, not the very slightest. . . I am going 

up to — to her room again, to see if I can find any. . . . No, dear, 
I would rather go alone. . . . Excuse me. You are not equal to 
going again to that room yet.’ 

Mrs. Godfrey was not unwilling to rest her aching head upon the 
cushions of her sofa. Meanwhile the Canon was moving about a 
dainty upper room, moving reverently, slowly, as he might have 
gone about some altar-place. At last he came upon a letter-case, 
and within it there was the rough draft of a letter — whether it had 
ever been rightly written and sent he could not tell. There was no 
indication, nor was there any superscription ; it was only by in- 
ternal evidence that he judged it to have been intended for a lady 
whom he knew to be living near London, a lady whom Thorhilda 
had only seen once for a few days in her early girlhood, and of 
whom she could have known but very little except from hearsay. 
Was ii possible that she could have taken refuge with so mere a 
stranger? Was it possible that she could have turned from a heart 
that lived and beat — humanly speaking — so truly for her, for her 
purest happiness, her highest good, to find shelter, sympathy, in a 
home all unknown to her — was this really within the bounds of 
possibility ? Almost for the first time in his life a deadly faintness 
overcame Canon Godfrey as he sat down upon the sofa his nieca 
had occupied so lately, and a strange unconsciousness passed upon 
him. Not till long afterwards did he know what that uncon- 
sciousness meant. When he did know, those about him said, ‘ Too 
late I too late 1 ’ Within himself there was joy, because he could 
say, ‘ So 800)1 J’ 


3I8 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


CHAPTEE XLIX, 

•can you not BRINa AGAIN MY BLESSED YESTERDAY?* 

* And shame gives back what nothing else can give, 

Man to himself — then sets him up on high.’ 

Christina Eossetti. 

Having that slight cine gathered from the rough draft of a letter, 
Canon Godfrey was spared the pain and mistake of making in- 
quiries in the immediate neighbourhood of Ycrburgh Rectory. 
Yet he had enough of pain before him. He was quite calm. Five 
minutes alone in prayer had been sufficient to ensure for him hours 
of calmness. His first step was to ride over to Danesborough, send 
off a telegram or two, and arrange with a clerical friend there to 
take his place if he should be absent on the following Sunday. His 
next duty, to go over to Ormston Magna and explain all before the 
tongue of gossip had had time to tell the sad story, was an unutter- 
ably painful one. Yet he seemed to see beforehand precisely how 
Percival Meredith would receive his news. There would be no cry 
of despair, no expression of unspeakable agony. And in thus 
thinking he was not mistaken. Naturally, the Merediths were sur- 
prised to see him. It was yet quite early; and the pallor, the still- 
ness of his face was like a warning. 

‘ Don’t say that anybody at the Rectory is ill !’ Mrs. Meredith 
cried, putting up her two pretty white hands as if she would ward 
off any evil news. 

‘ 111 !’ the Canon replied, with no answer to his interlocutor’s 
half-smile on his grave face. ‘If it were a question of mere illness 
I think I could bear to speak. . . As it is. . . 

‘Whatever it is, tell us — tell us at once P Mrs. Meredith cried 
impatiently, glancing at her son, who stood with a philosophic 
smile on his lip, turning a broad gold ring that was upon his finger 
with a certain meaning in the action. 

There was no alarm upon his face, no anxiety. For very surprise 
the Canon could not speak. 

‘ And I thought myself prepared,’ he was saying to himself. 
Mrs. Meredith’s attitude was very different. 

‘For heaven’s sake speak, Canon Godfrey— say what you have 
come to say '!’ she urged. ‘ I feel sure it is something dreadful ; 
and I cannot bear suspense.’ 

‘ Pardon me,’ Hugh Godfrey replied, lifting his sad eyes, turning 
his tense white face. ‘ Do forgive me. It is as you say, something 
very terrible I have to disclose. ... I can find no words. It is my 
niece — Thorhilda, who was to have been your sr>n’s wife within the 
week. ... It seems she . . . she could not bear the thought of 
marriage now that it came so near. ... And she has . . . she 
has gone away ; she left the Rectory this morning. . . . My wife 
hardly realizes it, I think.’ 

Mrs. Meredith’s laugh, a long, low, soft, unbelieving laugh, made 


*MV YEStERDAV: 


^19 

Canon Godfrey shudder. The smile on the son’s face was worse 
than the mother’s laughter. Percival Meredith was the one to 
break the silence. 

‘ What a pretty comedy you have arranged V he remarked in the 
smoothest of tones. ‘ I am only sorry that you have given me the 
part of “fool” to play.’ 

Canon Godfrey could only turn in silent misery to Mrs. Meredith. 
His fine face was not discomfited by the sneer that was upon her 
lips. 

‘ Would you ask us — would you even wish us to believe that you 
do not know where they have gone — the happy and interesting 
pair ?’ 

‘ Who are you alluding to ?’ the Canon asked in sudden fierce- 
ness, and with most unusual lack of grammatical precision. 

Mrs. Meredith was equal to the moment. 

‘ I am not alluding to anyone. I am speaking of your pet niece, 
Miss Theyn, and her fortunate lover, Damian Aldenmede, a wander- 
ing artist, a penniless adventurer, who is doubtless at this moment 
congratulating himself on his good luck.’ 

Canon Godfrey had no alternative but to sit down in the chair 
nearest to him ; and again that strange, appalling sense of power- 
lessness came over him, and he knew himself to be in the grasp of 
a power against which he could offer no resistance. 

‘ How many times must one die before death comes ?’ was the 
silent cry of the much-tried heart within the man. 

For some time he was silent. Then he rose to his feet, himself 
again, a Christian, and a gentleman, therefore considerate of those 
to whom it had been his duty to bring a painful disclosure. 

‘ I will forget what you have said, Mrs. Meredith ; I can do that 
— not easily, but I can do it, knowing what I must know of your 
— your annoyance !’ 

‘ That is the exact word,’ the lady replied proudly. * T am 
annoyed — my son is annoyed — how should we be otherwise? We 
shall be a laughing-stock for the Three Ridings ! But be assured 
that we shall recover ; it is not impossible that we may live to be 
grateful for what has happened.’ 

For some time longer the Canon stood there, feeling it a mere 
matter of duty to endure the last scornful sentence, the final bitter 
word. Percival Meredith’s smiling and supercilious silence was as 
difhc lit to bear as anything his mother could say. 

The Canon took his leave at last. His gray-white face — the look 
of hidden suffering written there — made no impression upon those 
who watched him as he departed. To either of them it was but 
an hypocrisy the more. 

They were able to comfort each other — the mother and son ; 
and before half the day was over to assure each other that all was 
for the best. And as for the gossip, the amusement — well, they 
were above it, apart from it. It would not come near them, and 
they need not go to seek it. 


220 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


* We can afford it, Percy ; we can afford even this I’ Mrs. Mere- 
dith said with a satirical pride not made too evident. ‘ We must 
let no one see that Miss Theyn^s elopement causes us anything but 
a very mitigated regret.* 

And, indeed, there was nothing else to be seen. If Percival 
Meredith did imagine once or twice for a few moments that he 
suffered deeper, truer grief, it was not necessary on that account 
that any compassion should be wasted upon him. His strength 
was equal to his grief. 

As a matter of course, within f our-and-twenty hours the news 
had spread everywhere ; with the usual exaggerations and ad- 
ditions, more than one of which might have been traced to 
Ormston Magna. 

It is only fair to say that no one who had really known either 
Thorhilda Theyn or Damian Aldenmede dreamt that there could 
be the slightest grain of truth in the rumour that included these 
two names in one hateful lie. 

When it was repeated to Barbara Burdas, the woman who 
uttered it had reason for wishing that the gift of reticence had 
been hers. Barbara was silent for a moment ; the hot, rapid 
colour spread over her face and neck ; a strange sudden light 
flashed from her eyes. 

‘ Are they daring to say that ? and of hei', of him f she exclaimed 
in a very passion of earnestness. ‘ Good heavens, what a world 
this is ! Is there ever a good man or woman in it that escapes 
slander and lying ? Is there one ? To think that any human lips 
could dare to utter a lie like that !* 

Later, Barbara seemed to understand how it had been with Miss 
Theyn at the last. It did not seem like any lightning flash of 
comprehension that came to her, but just a gradual development of 
natural light. 

‘ She could do no other,* Bab declared, that light still flashing in 
her eyes, a flash coming again upon her olive-tinted cheek. It was 
night now, the world about her was all asleep. But the little Ildy 
was not well, and needed that Bab should walk up and down the 
cottage floor with her till long past midnight. Barbara was all 
patience, all kindness for the suffering baby ; but yet to-night her 
burning thought was of the tale she had been told. 

‘ She could do no other than she has done,’ Bab said to herself. 
♦They’d surrounded her, overpowered her, and she had yielded. 
Then she saw what she had done, and knew there was only one way 
out of it. And that way she has taken, never heeding what the 
end may be I And as for Am, Mr. Aldenmede, him that went 
beyond the seas ever so long ago, he’ll never know. Perhaps it’s 
better so. He can never know the wickedness a wicked world can 
invent. . . . But, oh I was there nobody to spend their inventions 
on but her and him, two of the best and purest that ever lived ? 
Was there none but them f 

While Barbara was spending her indignation thus, the gossips of 


VESTERDAV: 


221 


the Bight, and far beyond the Bight, were finding sufficient food 
for the slander they revelled in. There is no need to write here 
the low taunts, the spiteful accusations of hypocrisy. It is sufficient 
to say that perhaps no man or woman, upon whose lips the slander 
dwelt, would not have grieved, and bitterly, compassionately, had 
they been able to enter into the heart of the suffering Thorhilda 
Theyn was enduring even while they spoke. 

‘ The sacrifice of God is a hrohen spirit,' 

To how many thousands have these words given comfort ! To 
how many thousands have they seemed as if specially written for 
them ! 

‘ A hrohen spirit P To have nothing left but that ; nothing, in 
all the world nothing, but a heart, a spirit broken with the sense of 
its own sin, its own error, its own mistake, its own life-long short- 
coming, and to know that even that seemingly-wrecked soul may 
be accepted of God ! Oh, where shall one find words wherewith to 
recognise, but ever so feebly, that magnificent mercy ! 

When all is done, all lost — when hope itself lies dead in the 
heart, to know that even then this broken and contrite spirit will 
be accepted of Him who sits upon the Great White Throne, accepted 
as a sacrifice of value — to have this knowledge is to be lost as much 
in wonder as in gratitude. 

Not at once may the broken in heart and soul dare to lift eyes of 
hope and thankfulness. Had we no other guide but instinct we 
should remain prostrate, penitent, ‘submitting,’ as Bishop Jeremy 
Taylor says, ‘ to such sadness as God sends on us ; patiently 
enduring the Cross of Sorrow which He sends as our punish- 
ment.’ 

Hope as we will, pray as we may, it can never be other than an 
agony to pass through this strait gate of repentance. The soul that 
passes easily may suspect itself from the beginning. 

Yet the Slough of Despond is not of the same depth to each of 
us. It is the man or woman who has sinned against light, in the 
midst of light, who must suffer the more keenly for having chosen 
darkness. 

Thorhilda Theyn, kneeling that night in a strange room, in a 
stranger’s home — alone and lonely, saddened, stricken, yearning, 
repentant, had no cry but one — that cry she uttered in the lowliest, 
the most utter self-abasement. 

‘ My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me ?’ 

Not long did she kneel there in the chill silence before an answer 
came. 

‘ Forsaken thee f Ah, no ; I gave My life for thee. I strove to 
constrain thee by My Love — My Love alone I How often have I 
urged it upon thee, this Love of Mine, by how many ways ! By 
the softness and ease of life I urged it ; by the sweetness of human 
love and friendship I urged it ; by the contrast of the pain and 
loneliness of other lives I urged it. In the stars of the midnight 
sky I spoke ; in the flowers of the spring-time I whispered ; each 


222 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


rustling leaf, each dew-bright petal, was a plea ! . . . Forsake thee ! 

, . . Never did I leave thy side for one moment ! 

‘ No ; I stood at the door of thy heart and knocked, but in vain. 

‘ My knocking was heard ; but it was not answered. 

‘ Not in so many words didst thou make to Me the old reply, 
“ Come again at a more convenient season,'’ but such was the answer 
thy life made to Me. The result is at hand.' 

Yet the tear-blinded, heart-broken woman knelt on. Though no 
comfort came, no help, she would yet remain where alone comfort 
could be. 

And again, and ever again, came the cry : 

‘ My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me V 


CHAPTER L. 

*AT YOUB SOFT TOUCH OF PITY LET ME WEEP.* 

* Experience is like the stern-lights of a ship at sea, and illuminates only 
the track we have passed over.’ — Coleridge. 

Happiness, dearl Is that the rock on which you have been 
stranded ?’ 

The speaker was a woman, young-looking for her age ; and, with- 
out consideration, one would add, beautiful. 

It was not a face that people felt inclined to analyse. The ex- 
pression of goodness, of quietness, of reserved strength, was of 
that unobtrusive kind which people accept without question. Few 
who knew Margaret Thurstone, and had a trouble, could help con- 
fiding in her ; though she did not always make such confidence quite 
easy. Her tendency being toward reticence, she had naturally a 
dread of the unguarded and unrestrained outpourings of others. 

To-night she had had no fear ; no strain had been put upon her 
forbearance. From first to last she had listened to the story Thor- 
hilda Theyn had told with interest, with sympathy ; yet with a 
growing wonder that a woman whose instincts were evidently pure 
and good, whose principles were upright, whose outlook over men 
and things was both clear and wide — that one apparently so irre- 
proachable could yet have been so blinded, could yet have been 
permitted to fall so far from her own first estate as to be now lying, 
so to speak, in the very dust, with ashes of huaiiliation on a head 
that had always been held, perhaps unconsciously, a little proudly 
above its fellows. Certainly it was not quite easy to see beyond 
and behind this strange and sad complication. 

Mrs. Thurstone’s life had been lived in the world. Though her 
means were now narrow, her way of living straitened, she had 
many friends who did not forget that she was the daughter of an 
admiral, the widow of a cavalry officer who had fallen in the 
Crimea. She herself at that time had not been twenty years of 
age ; her husband had not completed his thirtieth whiter. 


^ LET ME weep: 


223 


Her life since then had been not only pure and blameless, but 
those alone who were privileged to watch it closely knew of the 
ceaseless self-sacrifice, the untiring devotion with which she gave 
her time, her strength, and such means as she had, to the service of 
such as were yet poorer than herself. Her name was not in the 
newspapers, she sat on no committees, she organized no new and 
popular ways of being philanthropic. Yet it may be that she dared 
to think prayerfully of a time when she would hear the words, ‘ I 
was an hungered^ and you gave Me meat' 

Still, as it has been intimated, her life was not one of social 
seclusion. Her society was too much valued by such as understood 
for that to be possible. And so it was that she was able to estimate 
to the full the gravity of the thing that Thorhilda Theyn had done. 
A woman less conversant with the way of the modern world might 
have underrated the matter altogether ; indeed, it is probable that 
Miss Theyn had a little hoped to be consoled by hearing some 
words that should betray that a lighter and easier view might be 
taken ; but if so her hope was disappointed. 

Margaret Thurstone’s memory was good ; her affection enduring. 
Though so many years had passed since she had counted Squire 
Theyn’s dead wife among her friends — a friend older than herself 
by fourteen years, and possibly weaker in some ways, yet a woman 
so loving, so gentle, so full of all sweet human kindliness that her 
memory could never be recalled without a sigh — though all this 
had been so long ago, Mrs. Thurstone had received the daughter of 
her dead friend almost without surprise, and certainly without 
regret. 

It was chiefly from her Aunt Averil that Thorhilda had heard of 
Mrs. Thurstone ; and though she had heard so little, that little had 
always been of a nature to lead her to conclude that her mother’s 
friend would be likely to be the friend of anyone in real trouble. 
So it was that in that hour of desperation her mind had been 
drawn to dwell with some hope upon the possibility of finding a 
refuge in the small house in Strafford Park where Mrs. Thurstone 
lived ; and drawn so strongly that no other alternative seemed to 
present itself. 

She had not regretted. Bather had the thought forced itself 
upon her mind that even in this hour of apparent rebellion a 
Guiding Hand had been over her. Certainly she had prayed for 
guidance, but it was with her as with most of us ; we are aston- 
ished, somewhat appalled, when a prayer is directly and visibly 
answered. 

Some hours had now passed since that twilight hour when Thor- 
hilda had presented herself at Mr§. Thurstone’s door, pale, chilled, 
silent, yet with a look of supplication so evident on her beautiful 
face, that even before she had made herself known she had been 
made to feel most warmly welcome. 

‘ Do sit down here, by the fire, please !’ the hostess had urged in 
a kind, homely way. The cabman had been dismissed, tea ordered 


224 


N EXCHANGE FOE A SOUE 


the lamp turned to its fullest height, the fire stirred to its brightest 
blaze, and all before the stranger’s name was asked. 

It was hardly needful to ask it, so strong was the resemblance 
between Thorhilda Theyn and her dead mother. Mrs. Thurstone 
felt no surprise, showed none, nor yet any curiosity. 

‘ You shall tell me all when you have had some tea. Forgive me 
for saying that I know you have something to tell me — some 
trouble. Well, whatever it is, my life has been one long prepara- 
tion for it, and without doubt He Who has prepared me has led 
you here.’ 

And now, at early midnight, all was told — told from the very 
beginning. The first weeks of doubt, of irresolution, the first 
dawning of trouble, the strong temptation, the almost overwhelm- 
ing pressure, the dread alternative — all was laid bare ; made so 
clear that the girl felt as if she had never seen her own position, 
her own place in the pitiful drama, before. Yet she was far from 
pitying herself ; that was reserved for Mrs. Thurstone to do. All 
her own feeling was of the nature of blame. 

And after this came the history of the way in which light had 
come at last ; at least light enough to prevent the consummation of 
such a disaster as had doubtless led to a wreck even more terrible 
than this stranding on a strange rock in mid-ocean. 

As a matter of course Damian Aldenmede’s name was mentioned, 
and this with such effort, such betrayal, such evident suffering, as 
was sufficiently convincing. 

Margaret Thurstone did not hear the artistls name for the first 
time, as she hastened to say, hating all concealments, all semblance 
of mystery, and useless suppression of simple fact. 

‘ I know Mr. Aldenmede,’ she said at once. ‘ I have known him 
many years.’ 

‘ Did you know that he was at Ulvstan Bight ?’ 

‘ Yes ; I helped in recommending him to go there — or at least to 
the north coast. He needed bracing, time for recruiting after the 
work he had done in the east of London.’ 

‘ I thought he had been much abroad ?’ 

‘ So he had ; but that was earlier in his life — I mean it was before 
his East-Eild work. . . It was just after his sorrow— his most 
crushing sorrow.’ 

There was silence in the little room for a time. Mrs. Thurstone, 
silenced by reminiscences, sat looking into the fire, her patient, 
thoughtful, beautiful face the more beautiful for its expression of 
rapt musing. 

The face opposite to hers, though, perhaps, strictly speaking, the 
lovelier of the two, and by far the younger, was yet at the present 
moment the less attractive to look upon. Keen, overpowering, 
remorseful sorrow is seldom altogether winning. 

* Could you tell me of Mr. Aldenmede’s trouble ?’ Thorhilda 
'^sked at last, speaking with a strange timidity. 

Ma garet Thurstone paused a moment before answering. 


^ LET ME weep: 


225 


‘There is no valid reason, none at all, why I should not tell you 
all I know,’ she replied presently. ‘ But I think it would not be 
very wise to tell you to-night.’ 

Thorhilda had no strength left wherewith to beseech for the 
knowledge she so earnestly desired to have. Personal grief will 
impair the strongest curiosity, and there is nothing like sorrow for 
softening the tone of even the most argumentative. 

Very skilfully Mrs. Thurstone turned the conversation back to 
Thorhilda’s own trouble. It was not a difficult thing to do. 

‘ And you had no plan in coming here, dear she said kindly. 

‘ No especial idea about your future ?’ 

‘ Nothing very clear,’ the girl replied, forcing the hot tears back. 

‘ I knew that you were working amongst the poor. I thought that 

perhaps I might help you ; but then ’ (this came with extreme 

difficulty) ‘ but then, how shall I live ? . . . I have no money, no 
talent. . . . What can I do ?’ 

In Mrs. Thurstone’s own mind there was the certainty that Miss 
Theyn would very soon go back to the Kectory at Yarburgh ; but 
she had too much tactful sympathy to say so at present. One 
thing, however, she must say. 

‘ I think I understood that you had not left your address, or any 
clue to your present whereabouts, at Yarburgh ?’ she asked in a 
studiously matter-of-fact tone. 

But Thorhilda’s conscience heard reproach where none was. 

‘ I could not — no, I could not ! Besides, for their sakes — for the 
sake of my uncle and aunt — I thought it better not, far better .... 
Believe me !’ the girl besought earnestly. ‘ Believe me, I weighed 
the matter all round, thought of things on the one side and on the 
other ; and, knowing that blame could fall upon me alone, I judged 
it better to do what I have done. Had I left an address, it would 
but have seemed like an invitation to — to them to follow me, to 
persuade me — to persude me to do what I had solemnly promised 
to do, and that after weeks, months — nay, I may almost say years 
of indecision.’ 

‘ Forgive me for interrupting you ; but that all points to a too 
narrow environment. A month in a wider social atmosphere would 
have shown you your own mind.’ 

‘ Perhaps so,’ Thorhilda replied ; ‘ but all the same, I ought to 
have known my own mind as matters stood — or at any rate I 
should have more clearly recognised the fact that I did not know 
it: 

There was another pause. 

The fire was yet burning with a subdued glow of cheerfulness ; 
the sleet now and then dashed upon the window-panes ; the wind 
was moaning sadly in the casement. Above its passing moan came 
the words, uttered slowly, firmly, solemnly : 

^ He that folio weih Me walketh not in darkness: 

‘ I believe that — I believe it with all my heart, with all my soul,’ 
Thorhilda auswered, while the hot tears dropped on her cheek. , , 

15 


225 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


* Yet— it seems hard to follow when the leading points only to 
pain — only to suffering/ 

‘ To what seems pain. . . . Can you not trust ? Can you not see 
that all such sorrow is certainly turned into joy, as He promised it 
should be ? While the other way — the wider way — with all its 
flowers and all its joys, quite as certainly leads on to darkness, and 
to pain, and to bitterness and to misery. . . , Oh ! when — when will 
human beings believe that Christ brought light upon their human 
path, that He came to bring it f . , , Oh, what — what is it in us — we 
know, we see^ we believe^ and we turn away, always meaning to come 
back to the narrower way some time. Meanwhile, path leads to 
path, flowers lead on to flowers. Then suddenly we awake — and 
all is thorns and darkness.’ 

‘ Not suddenly — no, not suddenly,’ Thorhilda interposed ; ‘ we 
see it coming — the darkness. We feel the touch of the thorns that 
are to wound so deeply .... and we turn away. To the last we 
turn — to the last the flowery way amuses us, distracts us, though all 
the while we see the end.’ 

‘ Yet it is something — nay, much, that we do see it ? Are you 
not glad that you see with open eyes at the present moment ?’ 

‘ Glad ? . . gladness for me ? . . . sight for me ?’ Thorhilda 

exclaimed in surprise. . . . ‘ There is only one light — it is upon the 
past. ... Is that enough for me ? Is it enough for any human 
lieing 

‘ It is as much as the most of ns get — and more than that : it is 
as much as the wisest people hope for. Believe me, the happiest 
state of all is a state of perfect trust — strong, hopeful trust that all 
will yet be well. That may seem like a platitude ; but happy are 
the people whose lives can be best expressed by a succession of 
platitudes.’ 

‘ How you repeat the word “ happy ”! To me, now^ it is the 
deadest word of a dead language. . . . And yet, ah me ! I remember 
one morning, not so long ago — it was but last spring, in fact— when 
I stood by the sea, a blue, bright, sparkling sea, with a blue, bright, 
shining sky overhead, and spent my forenoon in wondering why I 
was so happy. ... Is it possible that morning was not a year ago ?’ 

‘ And your mind dwelt all on happiness ?’ 

‘ All on happiness — in perfect gratitude — because I was so very 
happy. . . . And yet I did not understand it ; and afterward I began 
to question it— then to place the unhappiness of others in a sort of 
balance, to weigh their patient, struggling, unselfish life against my 
own selfish and self-seeking one.’ 

‘ And the result T 

‘ The result was simply dissatisfaction.’ 

* It should have gone deeper than that.* 

* It has gone deeper now — too late /’ 

‘ Too late ? And you not yet twenty-three !* 

‘Age has little to do with it. A vessel shipwrecked on its first 
voyage or the last — where is the difference to the drowned crew — 


‘ WHE]>T HOPE LIES DEAD: 


227 


the hull upturned upon the barren rock ? Shipwreck is shipwreck, 
when the vessel is wrecked utterly. And the analogy holds good 
— a human life wrecked at twenty or at sixty, what matters I The 
few years are nothing !’ 

‘ Pardon me ! They are everything, as you will yet see. But I 
will not speak of that now. I want to help you more closely, more 
surely ; and to do that I must see what your present wishes are. 
And let me say, once for all, how glad I am, how grateful, that you 
should have had such trust in me as to come here and l^t me help 
you as best I may — it is even flattering, though I know you do not 
mean it for that. Let that idea go with some others. It is late 
now ; but even before I sleep I would like to have some idea of 
what I can do for you. . . . First, in the early morning, I must send 
a telegram to Canon Godfrey.’ 

‘ You must do that T 

‘ Yes, certainly. Think of him — the torture of uncertainty he is 
undergoing !* 

But when Mrs. Thurstone looked up. Miss Theyne was not think- 
ing. She was lying back in her easy-chair, white, pallid, unconscious. 

‘ How thoughtless I have been — how very thoughtless I’ Mrs. 
Thurstone said, reproaching herself. ‘ I forgot her sleepless night, 
her long journey, her terrible anxiety, . . , Oh me, when will one 
learn to be human 


CHAPTER LI 
‘when hope lies dead.’ 

* 0 friend, I know not which way I must look 
For comfort, being as I am, opprest.’ 

Wordsworth. 

The snow was still falling, the wind still wailing up the narrow 
suburban street. Indoors, lamps were being lighted and curtains 
drawn, though it was yet but three in the afternoon. People were 
glad to make believe that the night had come, or rather the evening 
— the long, bright, warm, English winter’s evening — not the least 
favourable time for discovering and enjoying the peculiar happiness 
of English home-life — a life that has a flavour all its own, and only 
to be discovered after acquaintance with life as it is lived elsewhere. 

It is not to be wondered over that happy English people should 
return to the scene of their happiness a little vain, a little super 
cilious perhaps— and as a rule, very well contented ; the latter is not 
the least of the good effects produced by change of scene. 

Canon Godfrey had known what it was to spend a winter abroad, 
to shiver in the marble corridors of Florentine palaces, to linger on 
the sunny side of the street so long as there was a warm ray to 
tempt him, then to go indoors to a carpetless room— to walls glitter- 
ing with mirrors, and gilding, and faded frescoes. Somewhere 
there would be a big white china stove — very handsome, perhaps — 

15—2 


228 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


but being so very unfamiliar, would certainly also be unattractive, 
and less equal to the task of persuading him of its use than of its 
architectural beauty. 

The Canon was a man sufficiently sensitive to such things ; and 
being given — far more than the world about him at Yarburgh knew 
— to testing himself, his strength of soul, by various self-denials 
and asceticisms, he had come to know how very keen was his ap- 
preciation of what people call domestic comfort. A man who had 
simply gone on taking life as it came, enjoying all his meals with 
no more than the ordinary restraint prescribed by social usage, who 
had indulged in the luxuries of fire and warm clothing whenever 
these might seem to be needed, who had accepted all the services 
and attentions common to his position without question — such a 
one would have known far less of himself, of his own weakness, 
than the Canon knew ; would have suffered far less from strife 
before his falls, or what he counted such, and from compunction 
afterward. And whatever may be said for or agrinst the view he 
took, and the things done and suffered in consequence of that view, 
this at least is certain, he kept his inner life most certainly alive, his 
soul’s life was at least as vivid a? hi§. outer life. 

Was this double existence the reason — or one reason, why his life 
was being lived so rapidly ? 

He did not know how rapidly it was going. Suspicion had passed 
away with the momentary sense of physical failure that gave it 
birth. 

Yet now and again suspicion returned — never causelessly. 

This afternoon, travelling between London and Peterborough, he 
knew that there had been a time of oblivion — ‘ the oblivion of 
sleep,’ some might have suggested ; but though ordinary sleep may 
undoubtedly cause a man’s pulse to beat more faintly, it does not 
so impair the action of his heart that the pulse ceases altogether, 
and only resumes its working after a very convulsion of the forces 
of nerve and brain. 

The Canon, coming to himself after such a moment, recognised 
once more all that had happened — and the recognition was made 
with most reverential wonder. 

‘ How many times will it be thus ?’ he asked himself. ‘ How 
much of nerve-force is there in me, to enable me to fight with death 
thus and overcome ?’ 

* It is not my doing—this returning. ... In my powerless brain 
there is no effort— no desire. , . . Life strives with death ; and so 
long as God wills life will overcome. . . . Some day — it may be soon 
— there will come the moment when God will decree that the strife 
shall end otherwise. . . . And I . . . I do not m urmur. I do not 
dread that moment — not with more than the ordinary human and 
natural dread of the unknown ! Were it not for others, I should be 
even glad to go.’ 

He did not, even to himself, admit the fact that it was these 
same ‘ others ’ who had so largely taken the joy, the strength, from 


< WHEN HOPE LIES DEAD: 229 

his past life, who were so certainly helping to make him weary of 
the present. 

Naturally his thought turned almost at once to the niece of whom 
he had been thinking all day — nay, for many days. Not once liad 
a reproach darkened his desire to meet her again — to console her. 
It may be that he alone knew the depth of her great need for con- 
solation. Others might blame — doubtless were blaming, even then ; 
but even upon this blame of others Hugh Godfrey was not drawn 
to dwell. 

Love itself does not always enable people to understand, to 
exonerate the one beloved. There must be something beyond — and 
that something is the divine love which is named charity. ‘ It is 
charity that beareth all things ; hopeth all things ; and charity never 
faileth.* 

‘ I will be gentle .... and passing gentle, 

the fierce Sir Balin resolved within himself at a moment of some- 
what fierce temptation. And because his word is so simple and 
natural we know it will be kept. 

Hugh Godfrey’s resolve was of a different nature. 

It was a holy thought brought to his memory by the sudden 
sight of a cup embossed with a simple spiritual scene, that enabled 
the knight in the poem to overcome. It was a holy thought, 
brought to his mind by a book carried always in his pocket, that 
enabled Canon Godfrey to confront a weighty moment with the 
strength and calmness he desired. The chapter in the little book 
was entitled ‘ Op Familiar Friendship with Jesus.’ And the 
first words of the chapter were these : 

‘ When Jesus is present, all is well, and nothing seems difficult ; but when 
Jesus is absent, eveiything becomes hard.’ 

‘ When Jesus is present^^ Canon Godfrey repeated to himself at the 
moment when most he needed the strength of the idea. So that 
afterward the hour seemed far from having been one of supreme 
difficulty. 

IMrs. Thurstone’s little room was bright and cheerful. She her- 
self was quieter than usual inTiei' manner — this by reason of the 
force of her st.'-ong sympathy. Thorhilda rose to her feet with a 
little cry that had in it as much of pleasure as of pain. The 
Canon’s kiss on her forehead, calm and tender and full of all for- 
giveness, was what she expected, not what she deserved. Margaret 
Thurstone could not help some wonder, perhaps even some slight 
touch of enviousness. Her own life was so lone ; it had been 
lonely so long. Yet it was not of herself that she was consciously 
thinking. The Canon’s face, the pain written there, the long- 
suffering, could not be hidden from one who had herself suffered so 
deeply. Ah ! how could anyone cause fresh sorrow, fresh wound- 
ing to a man so good, so generous as this man seemed to be ? And 
all too surely this new event must be a terrible thing in his sight. 
For awhile she left the uncle and niece alone ; and the first few 


230 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 

moments were pas ed in silence, save for the sound of subdued 
weeping. 

‘ I will let her cry for awhile,’ he had said to himself as he sat 
there by his niece, holding her hot, tremulous hand in his own. 
Then, all unawares, his own tears began to fall; and Thorhilda, 
seeing this, knew misery more bitter than any she had known 

yet. 

‘ Uncle Hugh I Uncle Hugh !’ she cried passionately, falling at his 
feet as she spoke ; ‘ I cannot bear this — I cannot.’ 

‘ No, my child,’ he replied ; ‘ I do not wonder that you cannot, 
since these are probably the first tears you have caused anyone to 
shed since you were born. . . . Forgive them ; and believe this — 
they are tears of gladness quite as much as of sorrow. And the 
sorrow is as much for you as for myself — nay, more. All day I 
have been thinking of what you must have suffered in secret before 
— before you took such a step as this. . . . Thorda, Thorda, how 
was it that you could not confide in me ? How was it ? Could you 
think for one moment that even undue persuasion would be used ? 
Could you think that, in a matter so important as your marriage, 
we should wish to influence you in the least degree in any direction 
to which your own inclination was opposed ? I cannot understand 
— no, even yet I cannot understand !’ 

There was no reproach in his tone, but the pain was unmistakable, 
and it was some time before any answer could be made. 

‘ I cannot understand myself. Uncle Hugh,’ the girl said, with 
sobs and tears. ‘ I cannot comprehend now how I could be tempted 
by mere external things so far. But I was tempted — tempted to 
sell my soul — it was nothing less than that, that I might be the 
mistress of Ormston Magna. That was my dream. Of myself, as 
Mr. Meredith’s wife, I would not and could not think — not until it 
was too late. Then it was forced upon me. The letters of con- 
gratulation, the sayings that dropped from people’s lips — nay, the 
very books and newspapers that I read, there was a time when 
everything seemed to force upon me all that married life, without 
love^ really meant. But all too late. I looked about for some way 
of escape. I thought of it night an(^ day till my brain would think 
no more. ... I did not think at last*, . ♦ ^ It seemed to be someone 
else who was listening to your sermon, someone else within me, yet 
not in sympathy with me — with what I was about to do — who said : 
“ These words are for you : it is you who are exchanging your soul, 
selling it for the mess of pottage that is offered to you in the guise 
of wealth, and ease, and luxury. Take it, and it shall be dust and 
ashes in your mouth, and you shall find no place of repentance — no, 
not though you seek it carefully with tears.”’ 

Another time of silence passed, but it was sufficiently eloquent 
silence. The girl felt all the forgiveness, all the comprehension, all 
the compassion she so greatly needed. Yet there was weight and 
heart-ache and dread behind. 

’’^t was she who spoke first, 


^ WHEN HOPE LIES BEAD.' 


231 


* Don’t let us talk more of the past than is needful, Uncle Hugh/ 
she entreated. ‘ You do forgive me all that I have done — the pain 
I have caused you, the disgrace ?’ 

‘ Forgive, my child ! . , . Yes, as I hope to be forgiven, , . . Do 
you quite forgive me 

‘ For what 

‘ For want of insight— nay, for worse than that. . . . Let me 
confess once for all, that I wished that you might care for Percival 
Meredith ; that I wished to see you there, at Ormston, happy, free 
from care, in a position you seemed created to fill. Doubt dawned 
upon me very slowly. The words I said in the church were said 
half against my will. They were not my own words. I spoke 
them to you, and you know that I did, but I was compelled to 
speak them.^ 

‘ I knew it. , , , I knew also that you could not have said them 
privately.’ 

' ‘ You felt that ?’ 

‘ Intimately, . , , And now again, let me ask you to think more 
of what is to be. ... I have been thinking of it — thinking cease- 
lessly, intensely. And now I trust my way is clear.’ 

‘ It is quite clear to me.’ 

Thorhilda’s face, the sudden change in the expression of it, 
showed that she apprehended the idea that was in her uncle’s mind. 

‘ What is clear to you ?’ she asked, in altered tones. 

‘ That you mfist return to Yarburgh with me to-morrow.’ 

Again there was a long pause, more weighty, more troubled than 
before. 

‘ You have thought of that — ^you have even considered it possible I 
... Oh, Uncle Hugh 1’ 

‘ Do not think that I am speaking selfishly, still less carelessly. 
. . . Believe me, I have thought out the matter on every side. Do 
what we will, there will be pain for you, pain for me. I am per- 
suaded that what I urge will be for the best in every way.’ 

And then with clearness, with eloquence even, with afiEection, 
the Canon went on to unfold his views. 

Miss Theyn listened, wishing passionately to be convinced. To 
return to the Eectory — to the one home she had known and loved 
with the love of the untravelled, the inexperienced, was the one 
bright vision she had. 

But instinct, strong within her, spoke unpalatable truths. ‘ If 
you return now,^ it said, ‘ you will draw down upon those who are 
dearest to you the odium, the gossip, the scandal of a whole neigh- 
bourhood with fresh acrimony. Remain here, devote yourself to 
some high and noble work, thus proving your repentance, and in- 
evitably you will regain for yourself, and for others, the belief in 
your integrity which is the secret of all force in the nerves of the 
social life of each one of us. Unhappily for you, you have let in 
the air of suspicion. The work of reducing it must be the work 
of years ; and that work will be best done away from the scene of 


tN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


23^ 

your fall It would be presuming upon power that you have not 
to return at the present moment.’ 

Thus convinced herself — though all against her desire — it was 
impossible but that this erring and suffering woman’s language 
should be all-convincing. Canon Godfrey could only bow his head 
in token of his sorrowful yielding. 

‘ I will come back again, Uncle Hugh ; do not fear but that T 
shall come back— but not now ; it cannot be now. And when I do, 
we must be prepared. My coming back will have much pain in it 
— double pain for me, because I must bear yours as well as my own. 
Even yet I do not comprehend all that I must suffer. The heart- 
searching, the repentance that must come before myself can be 
restored to myself, will alone show me the strife of the days to be. 
And much of that suffering must be in enduring the judgment of 
others ; righteous judgment, doubtless, but not the less difficult to 
bear. Yet it must be borne . even I, with all my inexperience, 
know that. Look at the greater biographies of our own literature. 
Does Shelley’s splendid poetry cover his cruelty to Harriet West- 
brook ? Is Carlyle’s domestic misery quite lost sight of — as it 
ought to be — when we look at the shelves groaning under the work 
of a long, and suffering, and resolute life ? No, Uncle Hugh. Once, 
long ago, you preached a sermon on retribution, and in that sermon 
you quoted these words ; 

“As every body hath its shadow, so every sin hath its punishment.** 

The words struck me then, when no very definite sin had cast its 
shadow over my soul. Now they seem as if they might have been 
written for me, and for me only.’ 

The Canon listened, with sorrow enough, but also with compre- 
hension. 

‘ Tell me,’ he said at last — ‘ tell me the details of your plan. I 
suppose you are intending to help Mrs. Thurstone in some work of 
hers ?’ 

* Yes ; Mrs. Thurstone is willing to teach me, if it be possible 
for me to remain with her, or rather in the Infirmary where she 
spends so much of her life. . . I have everything to learn.’ 

The Canon understood. Here was a chance for him to make it 
impossible ; but his soul was not low enough of stature to enable 
him to pass by ways like this. 

He could only silently watch his niece for awhile. ‘ Everything 
to learn !’ Did she know all that her own word included ? Did 
she, who had never known what it was to be called in the morning 
before her own bell rang, who had been accustomed to retire at 
any hour in the evening when she might feel fatigued — did she 
even dream of what it might be to sit all night, night after night, 
in the ward of a hospital ? Had she any save the most vague idea 
of what the life of a professional nurse must be ? Had she taken 
account of the weariness, the disgust, the painful sights and sound? 


* WHEN HOPE LIES DEAD} 233 

to which she must become accustomed, before she could be of the 
smallest use ? 

He knew that she had not — that she had no data to go upon 
which would enable her to arrive at the conclusions that were dis- 
turbing his own vision of her chosen future. Chosen ? — no, as he 
knew too well, it was a future from which every nerve was recoil- 
ing with a dread little short of anguish. 

His affection, never greater than now, his intimate knowledge of 
the girl, so wrought upon and within him, that his anguish was no 
less than hers. And all the while his heart was crying out against 
the idea of his lonely return, of the loneliness of the days to bo. 
His wife was there at Yarburgh, awaiting him — true. And her 
loneliness, her unhappiness, would Ido added to the weight of his own. 

You cannot take a dog or bird to your heart, keep it there for 
years, and then lose it, but you shall find an aching gap. How 
much keener the aching when you wake to miss a sympathetic 
human being, one who has loved you, trusted to you for everything, 
rested upon your thought, your energy, your providence, for every- 
thing that you were glad to give, and that other heart was glad to 
receive I Such wrenchings asunder are amongst the bitterest and 
most abiding pains humanity can know. 

The words of the wisest consoler are fewest in the presence of 
such sorrow as this. So Mrs. Thurstone felt when the moment of 
parting came. She stood by, yet a little apart, till the last. Then 
she came forward. 

‘ Will you leave your niece to me, Canon Godfrey ? Will you 
trust me, believing that I will do my best for her ?’ 

The words were uttered in that peculiar voice, every intonation 
of which tells of the long chastening of sorrow ; and beside that, 
there was the gentle charm of the gentlest womanhood. 

‘ Can I trust you ?’ he asked, in a broken way, full of all effort. 
‘ The question is, can I thank you ? I feel that I cannot.’ 

Mrs. Thurstone smiled. 

‘ You know how little one needs to be thanked,’ she said. * How 
is it that words are so inadequate — that — that other things are so 
much ?’ 

‘ Ah !’ the Canon replied ; ‘ how is it, indeed ? We know nothing 
yet, nothing of each other, nothing of the language we employ, 
nothing of the significance of every look, every glance, every 
gesture. We know all about the internal economy of every bee- 
hive in the land, every ant’s nest, every fish’s pebble-and-weed con- 
structed bridal -bower. Of ourselves we know nothing — nothing 
but this, that one day we shall know.’ 

Was it the li^ht of that other day that was in his eyes as he went 
out ? The look on his face was calm, resolute, as if he had de- 
termined that all sadness should be subdued. There were no last 
words ; the final parting was brief, silent. Miss Theyn went to 
her own room to shed her tears in silence, and they were very 
bitter. Did she yet comprehend all that she had done ? 


234 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


CHAPTER LIT. 

•shall we see to it, I AND YOU?’ 

* He looked at her as a lover can ; 

She looked at him as one who awakes ; 

The past was a sleep, and her life began,* 

Robert Browning, 

It often happens in this bleak north country of ours that we have 
a glorious foretaste of spring some time in the month of February. 
Soft rains fall, the grass looks greener, the skies look bluer, the air 
all at once grows soft and warm as any air of June. And how one 
rejoices in it while it lasts, coming, as it usually does, between two 
severe winters I The winter to come, as we know too well, will be 
almost as long as the winter gone, and certainly as chill. Invalids 
venture out into sunny valleys, the tenderest infants are taken 
abroad ; young and old seem to rejoice as if something had hap- 
pened of a nature peculiarly pleasurable. And all this because the 
sun shines and the air is warm. Do we even now clearly recognise 
how certainly cold and dulness are of the nature of pain ? 

The lanes between Yarburgh and Ormston Magna are very much 
like certain Devonshire lanes. They are narrow, uneven, and they 
lie between deep hedgrows that in summer are all luxuriant. 
Though they be brown and bare in winter, they have stiU a charm 
of their own, a charm not wanting in either form or colour. The 
last year’s bramble-leaves turn crimson in the pale sun, or show 
touches of amber and russet, of gold and green ; late grasses 
quiver ; the hemlock seeds spread gray-white discs in the upper 
hedgerow, giving you a sky-line of wonderful picturesqueness. 
Then, too, the bare trees, in all their beauty of branching and 
curving, seem to claim new attention because of the sun-bright 
blue behind and above ; and no patch of green, or gray, or cream- 
coloured lichen loses force for the need of light. It is on such 
days as these that we begin to recognise all that light must mean in 
the lands where light is a perpetual and natural thing. And such 
light ! Only the eyes that have wakened to the glory and intensity 
of the rays of southern suns can know all that we owe to the 
beneficence of light. 

Yet a February day in England, such a day as we have spoken of, 
is not a time to be passed without enjoyment. 

‘ It is simply glorious !’ Miss Douglas was saying, in her clear, 
loud, yet most musical voice, to a gentleman she had met saunter- 
ing along Langrick Lane in the middle of a February afternoon. 
It may be that her voice was more musical than usual, the sparkle 
of her eyes brighter, the colour on her lip and cheek deeper and 
lovelier because the gentleman was Mr. Percival Meredith. 

It had so happened that these two had not met since what was 
spoken of in certain circles«as ‘ the catastrophe.’ 

Perhaps it was not altogether so unsuitable a word as it might 


^ SHALL WE SEE TO IT, I AND YOUf 


235 


seem at first glance to a scholar to be. Without doubt, Miss 
Theyn’s flight from home was of the nature of ‘ an overthrow,’ of 
‘ a great calamity/ of ‘ a violent convulsion ’ in humanity if not in 
nature. 

As a matter of course, by one name or by another, the occur- 
rence had been the great topic of conversation in the neighbour- 
hood of Yarburgh ever since the fatal-seeming day on which it 
happened. And equally, as a matter of course, different people 
took different views of the affair. It was sad to note how few 
judged charitably. 

Perhaps it might be sadder still to note how few suspended their 
judgment, how few refused to pronounce any final verdict at all. 
And it was significant that in nineteen cases out of twenty the 
blame was thrown solely upon Miss Theyn. 

It seemed as if it were impossible that a man still young in a 
certain sense, undoubtedly handsome — ‘handsomer than ever,’ so 
close observers were saying— and undoubtedly rich, it was im- 
possible that any blame whatever should lie with one so favoured 
on every side. This may seem a crude way of stating the truth ; 
but not Virgil himself, with his dainty ten lines a day, could add 
to the truthfulness. 

Inevitably Miss Douglas understood ; she had understood all 
along the line of this strange and painful matter. And she knew 
Percival Meredith almost better than she knew herself. She had 
much in her favour. 

‘It is simply glorious!* she said, meeting Mr. Meredith in 
Langrick Lane, and swinging her crimson parasol with its deep 
border of cream-coloured lace behind her head, so that only the 
softest reflection of the soft February sun should lie upon her face. 
She was looking well, as she knew — a source of strength, even of 
genius, to the plainest woman in the world. Once be assured that 
you are looking your own best, and you have nothing to fear from 
the handsomest woman in your neighbourhood. 

So much lies in consciousness — nay, much more than this. It is 
only when you get beyond being conscious at all that you can 
afford to forget, to ignore. By that time you have got beyond 
much else, much that can never trouble you, or gladden you 
again. 

Gertrude Douglas was still in the time of gladness, of hope, of 
perturbation ; her manner betrayed all three. 

Percival Meredith was not slow to understand. Something he 
had understood before to-day. He replied to the rather gushing 
greeting of Miss Douglas with the air of well-bred calm she had so 
long admired. His dark eyes looked darker and more inscrutable 
than ever ; his fine figure seemed taller, more compact. He had 
the demeanour of a man unembarrassed, disengaged, thoroughly 
master of himself. 

‘ Yes, it is perfect weather for Englant he said, and Miss 
Douglas made quick reply. 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


236 

‘ But I understood that you were not going to spend your spring 
in England. We were told that you were going to Rome.’ 

‘ Ah, so I have heard before I . , Why Rome, I wonder. I 
have been there so often !’ 

‘ Then you have not thought of it ?* 

‘ Not for a moment.’ 

‘ You had not intended to leave home ?’ 

‘ Not at present ; certainly not. . . . Why should I ?’ 

‘ Why should you ?’ Miss Douglas asked, shrugging her shoulders 
in a way that would have been pretty had her shoulders been 
slighter. ‘ Why should you, indeed ? but that everybody expected 
it of you. It was the only decent thing to be done.’ 

Percival Meredith was not quite unaccustomed to what is termed 
‘ chaff’ ; nay, it said much for his education in that direction that 
he bore Miss Douglas’s insinuations not only without wincing, but 
with a certain amount of enjoyment. 

‘ I begin to comprehend,’ he said, speaking with an affectation of 
faintness, exhaustion ; yet this suggested, rather than overdone. 

‘ You hegin to comprehend ! What have you been doing all this 
while ?’ 

‘ What have I been doing ? . . . Oh, well, various things ! . . . 
I have had my portrait taken.’ 

‘You have? . . . at this juncture ? . . . What a confession I 
, . . For the next I suppose ?’ 

‘ Yes, for the next,’ Mr. Meredith replied, still with the air of 
one striving against extreme over-fatigue, ‘ The next, or the one 
after that,’ he added. ‘ Who can say ?’ 

Miss Douglas laughed— a long, low, cheery, pleasant laugh — and 
Percival Meredith listened with something more than amusement. 
Long ago he had noted, for his own private remembrance, how 
pleasant a laugh that of Gertrude Douglas would be for a man to 
have at his fireside whenever he should care to hear it I At this 
moment it seemed pleasanter than ever. 

When Miss Douglas spoke again there was a decided change in 
the tone of her voice ; it was gentler, more serious ; her large, dark, 
beautiful eyes were dilated with a new interest, a new compassion 
in the expression of them. Never before had she been so winning, 
Percival Meredith felt his heart beating with a new emotion as he 
listened. 

‘ I am glad. I am glad you are taking it all so beautifully 
and there was genuine sympathy in her every accent. ‘ Do forgive 
me,’ she continued. ‘ I have thought so much of you, wondered 
how you would bear, how you would really bear ; not how you 
would be seeming to keep up before the world : of that I had no 
fear ; but of how you were enduring what I knew must be such 
sorrow ! . . . Oh, I must say it — Thorda was my friend, is my 
friend, but she was cruel !’ 

For a moment, one silent undecided nioment, Mr. Meredith’s 
face wore a shade of sadness, 


237 


‘ SHALL WE SEE TO IT, I AND YOU f 

* You are right ; it was cruel,’ he admitted. ‘ And it was 
gratuitous cruelty. Even then, at that last moment, Miss Theyn 
might have gained her freedom, if that was what she wanted, by 
steps less painful to me. . ^ut there ! you have betrayed me into 
breaking my resolve, my uicsc strong resolve. I had not wished to 
mention that name to anyone.’ 

‘ How good of you , and how wise ! . . . But — but I am not 
“ anyone,” surely ?’ 

‘ I believe that though you are Miss Theyn’s friend, Miss Douglas, 
you 3'et have some feeling of friendship for me. I trust I may 
take so much consolation to myself.’ 

This was said so impressively, with so much meaning behind, 
that the rosy glow on Miss Douglas’s face deepened to a sudden 
blush. 

‘ If you will let me be your friend, really your friend, well, I 
can only say that my life will be happier than it has been for a 
long while. . . It has not been too happy of late.' 

Mr. Meredith paused, not startled, not amused, but wondering 
once more whither things were tending. 

‘ Then it is a compact,’ he said presently, meeting Miss Douglas’s 
rather anxious but still beautiful eyes as he spoke. ‘ It is a com- 
pact. If I need a friend, or rather friendship, I am to look to you. 
And on your side, will you say the same ?’ 

‘ Indeed, I will, and gladly ! . There is more I could say, but 

1 ill not now.’ 

‘ No ? Have I been thoughtless ? Have I kept you standing 
here too long ? Pardon me.’ 

‘ Has it been long ? Surely not ? . . . But I will say “ good- 
bye.” ’ 

‘ Say, rather, au revoir, I must see you again soon— very soon.’ 

o o e o o o 

So they parted, there in the white sunny laue. Gertrude Douglas 
was so happy, so hopeful, so excited in her hopeful happiness that, 
meeting Mrs. Kerne a quarter of an hour later, even that lady’s 
curt ungraciousness had no really subduing effect. 

‘ Tell me about dear Thorda ?’ she had begged in a manner even 
more effusive than usual. ‘ Do tell me all about her ; do tell me 
she is happy.’ 

‘ You know as much of “ dear Thorda ” as I do ; and in all like- 
lihood a great deal more,’ was Mrs. Kerne’s brusque reply. 

It was not Miss Douglas’s v/ay to take offence at anybody or 
anything. With more true skilfulness than she might have been 
supposed to possess, she smoothed down the too-obvious angles of 
the other’s mood, and contrived to extract some information that 
she had reallj" desired to have ; for the two letters she had received 
from Thorhilda had both of them been too brief, too reticently sad, 
to be quite satisfying to one who had so keen a love of detail as 
Gertrude Douglas. Besides, if she had a genuine affection for 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


238 

anyone, that person was Thorhilda Theyn ; and unquestionably 
her love had been strained of late. 

Of course she still went to the Rectory, but less frequently than 
before. The Canon was still the same courteous and thoughtful 
host, but change, had passed upon him. He was o/der-looking, 
sadder, more silent, and though he did not wish to bejray that the 
presence of his niece's most intimate friend was a pain to him, he 
could not quite hide the fact. Mrs. G-odfrey made small pretence 
of hiding her feeling, her suffering. At first she had burst into 
tears every time Miss Douglas entered the house, and still she 
would sit quietly weeping over her embroidery, making no effort to 
check her abundant tears. Miss Douglas could bear much, but 
even for her the Rectory was not now attractive. 

But after that February day her thought was less drawn to the 
Rectory, Disappointment had not taught her the unwisdom of 
hoping, of darting thought and hope far into the unknown future. 
Ah, well, life is not all disappointment ; and as the Italian proverb 
has it, ‘ The world is for him that has patience,* 


m 

CHAPTER LIIL 

* LOVE, HOPE, FEAR, FAITH, THESE MAKE HUMANITY.* 

• I dwell alone — I dwell alone, alone, 

Whilst full, my river flows down to the sea, 

Gilded with flashing boats 
That bring no friend to me : 

0 love-songs, gurgling from a hundred throats, 

0 love-pangs, let me be.’ 

Christina Rossetti. 

That spring was not a easy or a happy time for Barbara Burdas, 
yet the girl had never been more brave, more bright. 

She hardly knew herself how much of the brightness was due te 
the presence of ‘ Nan Tyas’s baby,’ as some people called it, others 
speaking of it as ‘ Bab’s Ildy,* which perhaps pleased her better. 
Bab was a true child-lover, and to feel the little one’s arms clinging 
about her neck, to watch the big blue eyes that looked into hers so 
wonderingly, so gravely, to note the growing intelligence of the 
frequent smile — all this was as new inspiration in Bab’s life, and 
caused her to double efforts that had certainly been sufficiently 
strenuous before. 

Bub, then, effort had not been so greatly needed. Barbara was 
not now in the darkness she had once been in. She read all such 
books and papers and magazines as came in her way ; and as we all 
know, when once the appetite for reading is established, it seems as 
if, by some miracle, aliment more or less is provided, enough for the 
keeping up of the appetite, if not enough for its satisfaction. The 
post brought to Barbara such parcels as oft enough gave her happi- 
ness for a whole week or more — pure, untainted, sterling happiness. 
And now it was beginning to be more than this. She was already 


^ LOVE, HOPE, FEAR, FAlTW 


239 


able to perceive that the world, or a sufficient portion of it, was 
awake to the fact that the British fisheries were decreasing ; were 
threatened by injury in the way of trawling ; by hurt in the way 
of fishing at harmful seasons, in unsuitable grounds. If writers 
were thus writing of these things, if members of Parliament were 
thus speaking of them, then surely down even in such poor little 
homes as her own the results would be seen. 

‘ Ay, so they may,^ said old Ephraim, taking his pipe from his 
mouth, and knocking out the ashes with the slow deliberation he 
had used for so many, many years, performing the act always as if 
a little regret attached to it, a little solemnity. ‘ So we may see 
the good on it — an’ yet, no, not us, not me for sartain ; and mebby 
not even you, Bab ; no, nor Jack, nor Steve even ; whoa can saay ; 
they’re that slow, them Parly ment foaks. They don’t do nothin’, 
so Ah’ve heard said, till they’re fairly forced, an’ then it’s agin the 
gra^n, so as it’s not done hearty, nor rightly, after all. Ah well I 
poor folks mon’t complain ; ’tisn’t right as they should. Ah’ve 
heerd mah greet-gran’father saay, him as died afore this centherry 
was born — Ah’ve heerd him saay as ’twere a bad sign when poor 
folks began wi’ complainin’. An’ so Ah think, Bab ; so Ah think I 
Ah never holds wi’ no complainin’ I’ 

And Barbara smiled, and set her grandfather’s supper of boiled 
milk and bread on a little coarse creamy damask cloth, and raked 
the ashes of the coal fire together, and then threw in a little log of 
wood, so that he might go to bed in all the comfort of warmth and 
satisfaction. 

‘I like to hear you say that, gran’father,’ she said cheerfully, 
sitting down beside him, and taking her own supper ; ‘ I like to 
hear you speak so ; not as you did this morning. Why, you almost 
broke my heart I’ 

The old man, hearing his granddaughter’s words, was visibly 
affected. He put down his spoon, turned a little in his chair, and 
rested his poor old head upon his hand, as if a sudden aching had 
rendered it insupportable. Unhappily, Barbara understood it all, 
understood his wishing to be cheery and bright. And yet she had 
touched upon a point better avoided. It is those who seldom make 
mistakes of this kind who suffer most when sudden indiscretion 
betrays them. 

‘ An’ there/ I’ve done it again,’ she cried, kneeling down upon the 
brick floor, and putting her uplifted hands upon the old man’s 
knees. ‘I’ve been foolish an’ thoughtless again. But I never 
meant it, gran’father ; I never did. I thought as how you’d only 
been depressed this. morning when you talked of going to sea again; 
of leaving the place where you’ve stayed now this thirty years an’ 
never dreaming of leavin’ it no more. I know you haven’t ; an’ 
therefore, oft enough when I’ve been straitened for the rent — or 
worse still, for the rate — I’ve never let you know for fear it might 
unsettle you. These are terrible times, I know ; though I’ve done 
my best that noan under this roof save myself should know (^uite 


240 


IN EXCHANGE FOE A SOUL, 


how terrible they were. If milk’s been scarce, and buttefr scarcer 
yet, why we’Ve never known the need of a loaf of bread ; an’ if the 
tea’s been weak at times, why we’ve always had a bit left in the 
caddy. And all round us there’s been folks so much worse off than 
we are ; nay, I doubt if some of them’s touched the bottom yet. I 
know more than I care to say, gran 'father, an’ I don’t wish to say 
no more. No ! I’ll go on doin’ the very best I can, only so as 
you’ll go on too ; just putting up with things ; taking the soup 
when it isn’t much to speak of, an’ not mindin’ when the butter 
won’t go on to the end of the week— just bein’ patient, as you’ve 
alius been. Say you will, gran’father ? My heart’s ached all day 
with the few words you let drop this morning. . . , You didn’t mean 
them, did you ?’ 

The old man was trembling, a tear or two dropped over his poor 
withered cheeks, but he tried to put away Bab’s fears as well as he 
could without making any definite promise. 

‘ We’ll see, honey ; we’ll see !’ he replied, turning to the table 
again, and pretending to care greatly for his supper. 

Barbara was not deceived. 

The next few days were passed as people pass the time in a house 
when one is threatened with some fatal illness. No word was 
spoken willingly that might even lead to the dreaded topic. Natur- 
ally this made a kind of strain, only discernible by the increased 
gentleness of deed and word ; the continued and sensitive con- 
sciousness of the love that existed, and seemed to be growing — 
tenderly and sadly growing because of fear and pain. What 
would the end be ? 

All Barbara’s other troubles seemed to sink under this for the 
time being. It was a long while now since she had seen Hartas 
Theyn. One evening, sauntering to the cliff-top in the twilight, 
with little Ildy in her arms, she had met him suddenly in the cleft 
between the rocks where the beck came tumbling down to the sea 
over the rough boulders. He was looking very pale for a man who 
was now, as Barbara knew, literally working on a farm from morn 
till night. Canon Godfrey had told her of how he had offered to 
help the Squire’s son to begin life afresh in some other direction. 

‘ But he is wise, very wise,’ the Canon said, speaking with a 
warmth and emphasis that had been conspicuously absent from his 
words and ways of late. ‘ Hartas is doing the best thing he could 
do in devoting himself heart and soul to the only kind of work he 
knows anything about. And he is not sparing himself. It is true 
that he has every incentive. . 

Then the Canon stopped suddenly. In speaking of incentives he 
had in his mind the encumbered condition of the Squire’s estate ; 
the possibility that hard work and carefulness, with some know- 
ledge, some forethought, might do much to bring again some of the 
old prosperous state of things upon which the owners of Garlaff 
had presumed so long. But then another idea made him pause, 
and then add, with meaning ; 


241 


^LOVE, HOPE, FEAR, FAITH: 

* Every inducement but one : that one would perhaps have been 
the strongest of all ! . . . I am proud of him that he is trying to 
live as if it were his 

Barbara understood, as the Canon saw, but she was not the 
happier for that brief interview. Perhaps the fact that during 
absence, during silence, during much loneliness, with pain of many 
kinds, Barbara’s love had gone on growing, her regard deepening, 
perhaps this very fact prevented her views from changing, as she 
knew that Hartas was waiting for them to change. 

Did he know, did he dream, did anyone dream of the terrible 
hours of terrible temptation through which the girl had to pass ? 
Yet she had not wavered, and Hartas was quick to see that she had 
not. He seemed very calm outwardly ; still the surprise of seeing 
Barbara had naturally caused him some perturbation. Instinctively 
he raised his hat, and might even have passed on, but that Bab was 
blushing and stopping, as if expecting that she must stay to speak 
all against her will. 

It was like a meeting between strangers, so great was the change, 
so marked and certain the growth on either side. It is not always 
that love will stand sjich alterations. 

* No change, no change ! Not but time’s added grace 
May blend and harmonize with its compeers. 

* # # * # 

But ’tis a change, and I detest aU change, 

And most a change in aught I loved long since.* 

So Paracelsus spoke, nay speaks (that is the best of the friends 
that live between the covers of the books on our shelves ; they do 
not cease to speak save when we cease to Isiten) ; so said the suffer- 
ing man to whom even the most natural changes in the life of his 
woman-friend were intolerable. So we say, many of us ; and as 
we speak we know the love is dead, the friendship cold. 

But if there be a root to the matter, a true root planted rather 
in the rock of eternal verity than in the shifting sand of passing 
emotion, then no change can hurt the love so growing ; for change 
must mean advance, and such advance must mean an ever-increasing 
attractiveness. There is no security for human affection like to 
that which is planted in Divine love. 

If men and women who are of the earth earthy be drawn to such 
as show that some small ray of the light that never was on sea or 
land has penetrated into their soul, how shall it be with such as are 
praying always that the same light may be vouchsafed to them- 
selves ? 

Only a few words were exchanged, and these quite common- 
place ; yet the meeting was not without its effect upon the future. 

‘ I will go on waiting,’ Hartas said to himself as he went home- 
ward to the G-range. And Bab, returning with heavier step to the 
Forecliff, said : 

‘ More than ever I see I was right. How he’s changed I It’s 

16 


24 ^ 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


u^ardly himself I , , . A man such as he is now to marry a bait- 
gatherer I’ 

Then on that painful string the sad music of her thought paused 
awhile. And the next variations had each one a refrain, and it was 
this : 

* Yet, after all, will anyone ever love him more ? will anyone 
ever be to him all that I might have been ? . . . Oh me ! How 1 
could have loved him P 

And ever and again through all the strain of poverty and fear of 
want, and dread of parting, for ever came that cry, ‘ How I could 
have loved him / 

Naturally enough no one dreamed how it was with Barbara. The 
painful episode in the history of the Rector’s niece had drawn all 
attention, all speculation to itself. Few cared to remember that 
once upon a time the Squire’s son had fallen in love with a ‘ flither- 
picker,’ had suffered something that was almost death because of 
her ; and, finally, had owed his life to her. That was the end j and 
it had happened months ago. 

CHAPTER LIV. 

OLD EPHRAIM. 

‘Weepeth he? 

Some sobbing weep, some weep and make no sound.' 

•Are ya’ tired, honey? — are ya’ more tired nor nshal?’ the old 
man asked, as Bab came up the slope of the Forecliff, her baby in 
one arm asleep and smiling, and a skepful of brash* in the other, 

Bab looked up a little wonderingly as she answered that she was 
not particularly weary. Words of endearment had always come 
from her grandfather’s lips so rarely, so unreadily, that she hardly 
ever heard them without suspicion ; and there was something more 
this evening — a gentleness in his intonation, a tremulousness in his 
voice not to be noted without alaruL 

It was a May evening, somewhat chilly, as the evenings of that 
month are apt to be in the north of * Merry England.’ There was a 
cold, blue look upon sea and sky, almost a threatening look ; but 
since the fishing-fleet of the neighbourhood was in safe shelter 
there was no special need for anxiety on account of the men and 
boys of the place who were not at home. Perhaps even a deeper 
anxiety might be caused by the recollection of such as had been 
left behind to await the news of success from those who had gone 
out in search of it. Not even old Ephraim could remember any 
year when the strain of living had been so great at Ulvstan Bight 
as it was now. 

The affectionate words that Barbara had just heard from the old 

• Brash, a local name for the tiny morsals of coal and drift-wood that 
fringe the waves along the beach near to the mouths of rivers or ber'ks. 


OLD EPHRAIM. 243 

man’s lips awoke the cord that had been reverberating through the 
past days. 

As gently and deftly as might be she gave the children theii 
supper of bread and milk-and-water, gave each one a careful bath 
in the little back-kitchen, listened to each one’s evening prayer, 
and gave to each one a last loving kiss. Then she came outside 
again to the stone seat where old Ephraim -vyas still smoking in the 
chill, dark-blue evening light. 

‘ You’ll not have your supper out of doors this chilly night, 
gran’father ?’ she asked, sitting down beside him for a moment — 
not a usual thing for her to do. In those stern northern regions 
the deepest love seldom shows the slightest sign of love’s most 
natural-seeming familiarity. 

‘ Ah think Ah will, Barbarie — Ah think I will to-night.’ 

And again came that shiver of fear, of dread to the girl at his side. 

‘Just as you like, gran’father, just as you fancy,’ she replied, 
with seeming light-heartedness ; and in a few minutes the little 
table was in front of him, the steaming soup sending out a grateful 
odour. 

For a time the old man enjoyed his meal in silence — no, not 
quite that ; the art of silent feeding was one he had not heard of. 
Since Barbara had heard it alluded to once she had become sensi- 
tive ; but her sensitiveness was not hurt this evening. 

‘ It’s good, Barbara ; it’s good broth, this is I Won’t ya hev a 
drop on it ?’ 

‘ llTo, gran’father, thank you,* 

Old Ephraim paused awhile — then, with most unwonted effusion, 
he laid his hand upon the girl’s arm, and said brokenly : 

‘ Ah know why, honey — Ah know it all ! I hevn’t watched thee 
all these years athoot seein’ ’at thee never thinks for thysel’ — no, 
not for a minnit— it’s alius me, or the bairns, or Nan’s little Ildy ; 
or if it isn’t none of us, it’s somebody outside — onyhoo, it’s never 
thyself, as a bairn might see, lookin’ at thy thin white feace. . . . 
An’ Ah mun saay it some time, an’ that soon ; so Ah’ll say it noo, 
Ah can’t bear to watch thee noa longer. Ah’ve kept it all back tell 
the varry last ; an’ Ah’ve done that for my oan sake. Ah couldn’t 
bard noa talkin’ . . . An’ Ah’s noan an oad man yit — not me ; why. 
Ah’s nobbut i’ my seventies ! An’ there was oad Jake Moss as 
went to the Greenlan’ Seas in his nineties I An’ as for me, why 
Ah’s nobbut just going doon by t’ edge o’ t’ coast an’ up again ! 
An’ that just i’ th’ spring o’ th’ year, when all’s as quiet as can be. 
. . . Te tell the treuth. Barbie, Ah’s despert set o’ going — dessert 
set on it 1 Ah never thowt ’at Ah sud be, but I is. . . . Naay, Ah 
was kind o’ feard on’t, an’ had a kind o’ dread o* facin’ the saut 
water again. ’Twas rether straange, wasn’t it noo ? An’ then all 
at once Ah turn’d back o’ mysel’, and seemed, so to saay, craazed o’ 
goin’ I . . . Why nowt would stop ma noo ! — noa, nowt ’at Ah can 
think on ! Ah’s fair impatient for the morro’ mornin’. . , , It is 
queer, noo, isn’t it ? 


16-2 


244 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


‘ The morrow morning !’ Barbara repeated quietly. 

The old man did not see how pale she grew, how her lips whitened 
suddenly, how full of deep pain was the look that she fixed upon 
the far sea-horizon. 

‘ Ay, to-morro’ mornin’, honey ; an’ better so I Thee can’t ha’ no 
time to fret !’ 

Then the old man laughed a long, low laugh, meant to be easy 
and quite unaffected, but not altogether successful. 

‘ Frettin’ I’ he exclaimed presently. ‘ Te talk o’ frettin’ aboot an 
aud salt like me goin’ fra Hildshaven to the Thames an’ back again 
at midsummer I Goodness gracious me I what may one live te 
come to ?’ 

There was another pause — a pause that meant for Barbara a 
strong and stern strife. She knew — recognised most certainly — 
that any effort to stay the old man must end in failure. As he 
said, there was no danger to be dreaded ; that is, none save such as 
must attend every man who joins the brave army of those who go 
down to the sea in ships. 

And all such dangers he had braved long ago — braving such 
extreme moments as few had passed through with sufficient energy 
to enable them to describe their experience in detail. As Damian 
Aldenmede had often said, Ephraim Burdas’s life, truly written, 
would have been a life to rank with the most thrilling biographies 
of the English language. 

Unfortunately there was no one at hand to write it. Barbara 
Burdas, his granddaughter, the recipient of his every experience, 
might see the book — see it in her mind’s eye from the first page to 
the last — but, happily for her, the mysteries of pen and ink were 
yet most elaborately mysterious. 

That one should simply sit down to a desk and write some words 
which should afterwards be translated into print, the printed sheets 
be transformed into bound books, was enlightenment of the most 
startling kind. ‘ Was that how books were made ?’ 

But she was not thinking of these things on this blue, bleak May 
evening. Her thought was drawn to the idea of parting from her 
grandfather, the nominal head of the house, the nominal mainstay. 
After all, was it imperative that he should go ? 

So wondering, so hoping, so fearing, Barbara went to bed, leaving 
her grandfather to enjoy the rising moon, the silvery sea, the peace 
— the precious peace of that life in Ulvsti*u Bight. 

By-and-by the old man went indoors; and by-and-byhe too slept. 
The moon sailed above the Forecliff, above the sea, above a realm 
of quiet that seemed as if it might never be broken. And the gray 
dawn was quiet too — quiet and sombre and tristful. But presently 
there came the sound of human intrusion upon the peace of nature. 
Yet it was a thoroughly characteristic sound, and in keeping with 
the scene. 

‘ Ephraim Burdas, old man ! where be ya ? The Land o’ the Leal 
is off o’ Danesbro’ waitin’ for ya ; so if ya mean to sail wiv 


OLD EPHRAIM. 245 

her as ya said — if ya’ve noan changed yare mind, come along 
gharp I . . 

Barbara had heard, feeling afresh the chill shivering of the 
previous evening as she did so ; and as she dressed in haste, her 
every thought was a prayer. In a few minutes she was outside the 
cottage making inquiries of Peter Grainger as to the details of the 
voyage, and the probable length of it. She had not asked any of 
these questions before. 

As she had discovered only the previous evening, and to her great 
pain, her grandfather’s belongings were all ready. His hammock 
and blanket had been packed while she was out beyond the Bight 
at the limpet-beds — nay, she knew that for weeks past he must have 
been secretly and silently making his preparations. He had left no 
worrying or tiresome detail to irritate the last moment. 

Her first instinct was to rush indoors again and dress the children ; 
the two elder boys could dress themselves, and Ailsie could assist 
the smallest of the brothers. The baby took all the time Bab had 
to give. 

They were all outside the cottage at the last moment. Jack and 
Stevie were almost hilarious at the idea of their grandfather going 
to sea again ; but little Ailsie would not respond, and hid her face 
in Barbara’s gown and wept sorely. 

‘ He’U noan come back, grandfather won’t,’ the child sobbed in 
whispers, not to be heard by any save Bab herself. ‘ He’ll noan 
come back— no, never I I’ll have to go to him 1 c • q He’ll noan 
come back here again— no, never I* 


CHAPTER LV. 

K LETTER FROM THE LAKE OF THE FOUR CANTONS. 

* Take back the hope you gave — I claim 
Only a memory of the same.' 

Robert Browning. 

* How dreary life must be at the Rectory just now I’ a lady 
parishioner exclaimed one day to Gertrude Douglas. 

Miss Douglas liked to have such remarks made to her ; she was a 
little vain that it should be known how completely she was in the 
confidence of everyone in the house on the hill-top. And no one 
could say that she had ever betrayed the confidence reposed in her. 
If not altogether a wise woman, she was by no means to be classed 
with the foolish. And her saving grace was that she was free from 
all taint of malice, or evil will, or bitter recollection. She hardly 
knew what it was to remember an unfortunate remark. Her 
temperament seemed always charged to overflowing with kindliness 
and pleasantness ; and she had what certain people called a ‘ gift 
for seeing everything couleur de rose.’ The gift is a valuable one, as 
well for the neighbour of the possessor as for the possessor himself. 

‘Dreary!’ she replied to the inquiring lady in her most liquid 


246 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


and musical tone. ^ Well, no ; do yon know, after all it is hardly 
that. They are not dreary people, either the Canon or Mrs. God- 
frey.’ 

‘ Oh, well,’ the lady replied, * a shade or two in the meaning of a 
word is not usually of much importance in conversation. You know 
what I meant. It must be a time of sadness compared with timns 
past. Think of the life there a year ago — only last spring — the 
garden-parties, the tennis, the people gathered there always, some 
to meet the Merediths — popular people always — some to try to 
make out that perplexing artist — what was his name ? I forget.’ 

‘ Aldenmede — Damian Aldenmede. . . . There are people who 
set down the whole catastrophe to his account.* 

‘ So they do. ... I never did.’ 

‘ Didn’t you ?’ Miss Douglas asked with a very clever note of in- 
difference in her accent, ‘ Yet there must have been a cause ; don’t 
you think so ?’ 

‘Undoubtedly,’ said the lady, hiding an inconvenient smile. 

‘ And that a cause not far to seek. The match between Mr. Mere- 
dith and Miss Theyn was never a likely one ; the merest onlooker 
could see that I’ 

‘ Do you think so ? Well, you do surprise me !’ Gertrude ex- 
claimed. And there is no doubt but that her surprise was genuine. 
‘ We — that is, all of us at the Rectory — all of us who really knew 
them both well, considered the engagement a most desirable one ; 
desirable in every sense.’ 

‘ Desirable, yes ; but suitable, no /’ was the emphatic reply. 
• And the event was proof enough that Miss Theyn saw as I saw, 
as others saw ! . . . I have only sorrow for her — and yet no, some- 
thing more than sorrow — I have admiration, hope, She will live to 
he glad f 

With this half -dubious word. Miss Douglas’s interlocutor went 
her way, and Gertrude proceeded to the Rectory, where Mrs. God- 
frey was only now engaged in the saddening task of returning one 
by one the whole of the numerous wedding presents sent to her 
niece. 

When Gertrude entered the drawing-room, Mrs. Godfrey was 
already in tears ; for the very weariness, the very deadness and flat- 
ness of the future, she could not help the tears. 

‘I could forget the past,’ she said, the hot drops streaming 
throng her beautiful white hands. ‘ I could forget it all if I had 
hope for the future. But to think of her thus, my own child, most 
delicately cared for from her birth ; “ spoiled,” people said, who 
could not see that what they called spoiling was the very condition 
of her life. People talk, the newspapers write, the doctors lecture, 
on what is called “ Infant Mortality,” on the frightful “ waste of 
human life.” Does anyone who has ever brought up an infant from 
the birth ever cease to wonder that that “ waste ” is not tenfold 
greater than it is ? It may be that it is better, in a certain sense, 
that it is so. If the little ones die, they cease to suffer. I have 


FROM THE LAKE OF THE FOUR CANTONS. 247 


thought thus ever since I had the care of Thorda. She was so 
different from other children, and as a girl she was unlike any girl 
I ever knew. You will understand me, Gertrude, where others 
would deride me, when I say she was so superior — that is not the 
word I want, but it will do. She was always so reserved, so dainty, 
had such a dread of things common, and rough, and coarse. . . . 
And to think of her now, a servant of servants, helping to dress the 
most loathsome wounds ; brought face to face with the most im- 
possibly offensive sights and sounds — oh, I cannot bear to think of 
it ! Even her uncle, who takes what I may almost call the opposite 
view of the whole matter, even he has sorrow for her, though he 
will not admit it — not easily. Yet he cannot hide the fact that he 
is grieving — how should he ? Having no daughter of our own, 
Thorda was more than a daughter to us. She was a blessing sent 
to fill the place of a blessing denied, and therefore a double bless- 
ing. And until — until that unhappy hour, she never caused us one 
moment’s heartache. While the hours of happiness she brought to 
us, who shall describe them ? . . . I cannot. I cannot believe that 
it is all over ; no, I cannot. Surely one mistake cannot ruin a life 
—nay, more lives than one in this instance 1 Surely it cannot 
be !’ 

Miss Douglas was not wanting. Her ready flow of sympathetic 
words, the musical tone in which they were uttered, were all most 
helpful at the moment ; and when by-and-by she offered her graceful, 
if not very helpful or adequate services, in aid of the work of the 
day, or rather of the week, her presence was certainly felt to be— 
as usual — altogether desirable. As package after package was 
wrapped up, sealed, addressed, each with its own painfully ap- 
propriate note, Mrs. Godfrey grew more and more grateful for the 
help afforded her. 

* It is so good of you, dear,’ she said, as another parcel — a fine 
gold bracelet set with diamonds — was being sealed by Gertrude. 

‘ It is so very good of you. I could not ask my maid to help me in 
a task like this : she is too callous ; she would have driven me half 
wild. On the other hand, there was only my husband, who could 
not have helped me for the life of him. He would have broken 
down while sealing the first package.’ 

‘ Do you think so ? Do you really think that he would ?’ Miss 
Douglas asked, not wishing to show superior discernment, but more 
clearly alive to the Canon’s strength of will than might have been 
supposed. 

Perhaps it was fortunate that at that point an interruption should 
occur. Ellerton entered the room with a letter on a tray — a foreign 
letter, as Mrs. Godfrey saw at a glance. She broke the seal with 
some trepidation. 

‘ How strange 1 ’ she exclaimed, unfolding the thin paper. * How 
very strange that this should come now I It is from Mr. Aldon- 
mede.’ 

‘ From Mr. Aldenmede !’ Gertrude exclaimed, * Oh, do tell me 


248 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


about him ! Where is he ? The Pyramids ? The Rocky Moun- 
tains T 

‘ You shall know all presently, dear. The letter is dated from 
the H6tel Unterwalden, Lucerne. . . . Ah, how well I know it I 
how well I can see it all ! The blue bright lake, the blue sky, the 
green trees, the hotel itself glowing from top to bottom with its 
dazzling crimson-and-Avhite persiennes. , . . And then the scenery 
beyond, and all around, everywhere ! . . . But we shall see what 
Mr. Aldenmede says of it. He must be happy there !’ 

And truth to say the letter had touches of healing in it ; the 
healing that comes of intercourse with Nature — Nature at her 
greatest and grandest. 

‘ I have been to the Riviera,’ Mr. Aldenmede wrote, ‘ and intend 
going to the North Italian lakes in a few days. I am hoping to be 
able to paint a picture — a lovely piece of scenery at the lower end 
of the Lago di Garda. My hotel will be the Cavazzola, Desenzano. 
If you should be moved to write, be assured that I should be most 
grateful to receive a letter. These May evenings are long, and 
lovely, and lonely. The mornings are beautiful beyond all descrip- 
tion. Those who have only seen Mont Pilatus in “ the season,” 
when the snow has gone, and the purple shadows lie deep upon the 
mountains all day, can easily understand why it should usually be 
spoken of as “ Gloomy Pilatus.” But oh, that the world could see 
it as I see it now ! Better still as I saw it this morning at four 
o’clock ! It would need the pen of a Ruskin to do any sort of 
justice to it I There had been rain at Lucerne and in the neigh- 
bourhood for an entire week — the cold rain that means snow even 
on the lowest mountain heights. Even last night all was gray, and 
dead, and lowering. Judge, then, what I felt this morning when, 
on awakening at four, I saw instantly that the world about me was 
li Oiled with sunshine. And such sunshine I Before your head 
leaves the pillow you are dazzled, exhilarated. 

‘ I feel paralyzed when I think of trying, by means of mere pen 
and paper, ^ a give you any idea of the glorious scene that burst 
upon me when I stood by my window side. ... I am not ashamed 
to say that I saw it first through tears. 

‘ One hardly knew which way to look first, whether down the 
Lake of Lucerne, with mountains on every side, blue, snow-white, 
or rose-red, according to whether you happened to look left or right, 
to sunlight or to shade. And as for the lake itself — its intense 
glowing blue in the fore-front of the scene, the sparkle as of 
diamonds in every tiny ripple ; the shore scenery, picturesque and 
interesting where it was near, picturesque and mystic where it was 
far off — how shall anyone give any idea of it in a letter ! And even 
as I looked there began to rise from the lower end of the lake such 
strange, white, snowy, mysterious clouds, spreading in long lance- 
like lines from bay to bay, rising from peak to peak, that though I 
was aware of some strong attraction drawing me away to some other 
scene, I yet could not turn. 


FROM THE LAKE OF THE FOUR CANTONS. 249 


* To watch those long, white clouds, glistening and shining above, 
under-shot with the pearliest of blue-gray tints below— to see these 
mists embodied, so to speak, to watch them rising against the grand 
peaks of the Alpine range, dissolving as they rose, turning now to 
pink, now to white, and then the next moment not visible at all, 
certainly this was a lesson in the formation of clouds. I cannot ever 
again look upon the sky with such ignorance as I have suffered from 
hitherto. This morning on Lake Lucerne was a dividing line in my 
life. A wall fell, and I saw beyond. 

‘ But not even yet have I tried to describe the one surpassing 
moment. Of set purpose I have refrained. 

‘ And yet I knew it was there, Mont Pilatus in all its glory, such 
glory as I am told it does not display three times in three years. 
So you see, I am sometimes fortunate. 

‘Perhaps you will even discern that I am writing this letter 
before breakfast, under the strong impulse of the exhilaration of 
this glorious mountain air and scenery. Though I am by no means 
new to foreign travel, this moment has hitherto been unsurpassed. 

‘ How shall I tell you of the sight that burst upon me as I turned 
to the mountain on my right ? “ Gloomy Pilatus 1 ’* 

‘From the lowest plateau, the lowest gorge on its magnificent 
side to the pointed rose-red, shining crown, shining far up in the 
white, glowing sky, Pilatus was there, every outline defined ; in 
the highest parts defined in the sofest, most ethereal, shining rose- 
pink, against the shining white of the sunlit clouds beyond ; lower 
down the pine-trees, covered with snow, were outlined in pearly- 
griy tints upon the depth of snow behind. 

‘ There was snow everywhere, colour everywhere, shining, rising 
mist, almost everywhere. , . . But what amazed me was the fact 
that nowhere did there seem to be any cold. 

‘ Early though it was, between four and five in the morning, the 
people were thronging to church. The bells were ringing softly, 
the softer for the nearness of the water, which seems always to 
“ liquidise ” the sound ; the fishing boats were gliding across the 
lake ; people were sauntering under the chestnuts of the Schwei- 
zerhof Quai. Ah, how calm it all was, how full of peace ! 

‘And even yet it is peaceful. Fancy having merely to turn 
one’s head to see Pilatus on one side, and the Bigi Kulm on the 
other ! And then all the snowy Alpine range between, point be 
hind point, rising to the clouds, nay, piercing beyond them ! Below 
the snow the dark firs come ; they are everywhere, lending such a 
depth of purple to the distance, such soft, "deep, changeful mystic 
purple, as no palette could give you ; and below the firs the calm, 
still sapphire lake reflecting all. I cannot help writing it once 
more ; everywhere there is calm, and to a soul needing this healing 
as rnine does, the sensation fills one with gratitude, the holiest 
gratitude. I do not know that ever in my life before I felt so 
perfectly all that might be included in the words, “ Peace ou earth, 
good will to men.’^ 


250 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


‘ And now that I have said all this about myself, do you not feel 
moved to be generous, to tell me all about yourself, and how the 
world seems to you, now that the world’s happiest spot, your home 
fireside, is no longer brightened by the presence of your niece. 
You must congratulate yourself very sincerely on the fact that her 
home and yours are so near together. Will you give my kind re- 
membrance to Mr. and Mrs. Meredith, and also to Mrs. Meredith 
senior.* 

This latter part of the letter Mrs. Godfrey had not read aloud ; 
and now she was glad that she had not. 

For a few moments she tried to shade her tearful eyes with her 
hand ; but Miss Douglas saw by the quivering lips, heard by the 
half-suppressed sigh, that pain was being endured ; and well she 
knew the kind of pain. Fortunately she had no impulse toward 
attempting to relieve it. 

A little later Mrs. Godfrey read aloud to her husband and to 
Miss Douglas some parts of the conclusion of the letter. 

‘ If you should at any time be moved to write to me, please tell 
me all that you know of Barbara Burdas and her household. I 
have written to her, more than once, and have received one very 
welcome letter in reply. What a noble girl she is 1 Her natural 
instincts are so great, so unselfish ; and every now and then she 
finds how^ they have been crossed by hereditary strain, how they 
had been injured on this hand by training, or the influence that 
goes for training, on the other by neglect , and all this she takes to 
herself for her own failing ! Yet that s ^ her age and in her posi- 
tion she should be alive to it all, is a most astonishing thing to me I 
And it is even more astonishing that she should go on gathering 
bait, mending nets, washing, cooking, serving by day, and yet 
should have the intellectual appetite to sit down and read Buskin 
or Carlyle, Shakespeare or Tennyson, by night. And then her love 
for the children, her especial love for her little sister Ailsie, and 
for her friend’s motherless baby : does it not show how completely 
her character is womanly all round ? 

‘ Yet I am not quite happy about her. How should I be ? All 
the while, from the first day of my seeing her, I had wished to do 
something to alleviate her position a little ; yet I dreaded with a 
very natural dread to interfere with what seemed to me the 
arrangement of a higher Power. Now, however, I have fears, and 
it may be time that I should step in and do what I can. Will you 
help me ? Will you bring your finer feminine tact to bear upon a 
most difficult feminine problem ? As to the pecuniary part, with- 
out being needlessly explicit, I may say that I can, that I shall be 
happy to, do whatever you may think wise. 

‘ I need hardly say that we must work together with discretion, 
seeming to bestow our attention upon the children, or the grand- 
father. Barbara’s pride is seldom in a very quiescent state. That 
is one of her shortcomings. She has hardly arrived at the per- 
ception of the fact that to receive a benefit from a friend grace- 


FROM THE LAKE OF THE FOUR CANTONS. 251 


fully is to have reached a high point of human training. . , We 
must help her training on this head, you and I, that is if you will 
kindly co-operate with me. And I feel sure you will. I have 
written all this without once questioning your Kndness.’ 

That was nearly the end of the letter. The Canon asked to see 
it after dinner, and read it through again from beginning to end, 
but he read it in silence. Miss Douglas was at the piano, playing 
some of Thorda’s music, now and then singing one of her songs. 

. . . Perhaps it might only be in these minor matters that her 
intuition failed. 

‘ This is pleasant, Milicent dear,’ Hugh Godfrey said, leaning 
over the sofa on which his wife was resting in the dim lamp-light. 

‘ This letter is very pleasant — for the most part — and opens up 
some charming ideas of life — ideas we had half forgotten. It is so 
long since we were abroad — so long since we saw a snow-crowned 
Alp I Can’t we manage it — you and I ?’ 

‘ And take Thorda with us? We must do that ; that we must 
do.’ 

‘ And have it said that you had taken her abroad to meet Damian 
Aldenmede !’ Miss Douglas interposed, leaving the music-stool. She 
had lost no word of all that had been said. 

Well accustomed as Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey were to Miss Douglas 
and her peculiarities, much as they appreciated Jier manifold good 
qualities, there were yet moments when she occasioned them at 
least surprise. 

Her suggestion was met with silence — a perfect but not painless 
silence. 

With true large-heartedness the Canon turned from a difficult 
topic to one that at least promised easier continuance. 

‘We must think over what Mr. Aldenmede says of Barbara 
Burdas,’ the Canon remarked. ‘ How good he is ! How few men 
would have remembered an Ulvstan fisher-girl, and have written 
of her thus, while among the most perfect scenery of the Swiss 
Alps !’ 

‘ But how few fisher-girls would strike the chords of remem- 
brance as Barbara does ! You wouldn’t speak of her in the same 
breath as Kirsty Yerrill or Martha Thixen ?’ 

The Canon only smiled his reply. 

‘ You will go down to the Bight soon, dear ?’ he asked. * It will 
be an additional grace in Aldenmede’s eyes if you send him a few 
words at once.' 

‘We will go to-morrow, in the forenoon if you can, Hugh dear. 
You must come with me.’ 

‘ Gladly, if it be fine. But I am doubtful about the whether.’ 

‘ The glass has been going down aU day, so my father said,’ Miss 
Douglas remarked. ‘And even now it looks threatening,’ she 
added. ‘ Perhaps I had better go at once.’ 

‘ No, Gertrude dear. If it looks threatening — and I think it 
does — that is sufficient reason for your staying. There is your old 


252 IN EXCHANGE FOE A SOUL. 

room. And they will not expect you at home when they see these 
clouds r 

Gertrude laughed. 

‘ They never do expect me/ she said carelessly. ‘ If I am at home 
by ten, weU and good ; if not, the doors are locked. My father is 
very rigid.* 


CHAPTER LVL 

AT THE OLD HOUSE ON THE FORECLIFP. 

* Break, break, break, 

On thy cold, gray stones, 0 sea ! 

And I would that my tongue could utter 
The thoughts that arise in me.’ 

Tennyson, 

As the party at the Rectory had anticipated, there was a change of 
weather during the night, but it was, on the whole, a less severe 
change than the signs had seemed to predict. 

At dawn the boisterous wind went down, and with its fall the 
sea fell from its midnight wildness. By noonday there was nothing 
to prevent the most ‘ weather-fended ’ person from going out of 
doors, and consequently, at luncheon, Mrs. Godfrey announced her 
intention of going down to the Forecliff. 

‘ I am going in obedience to the request of Mr. Aldenmede,* she 
said with her usual light pleasantness of manner. ‘ Gertrude, you 
will come with me T 

‘II oh no r Miss Douglas exclaimed, uttering the words with 
such musical vehemence, with such pretty gestures of surprise, that 
neither of the two who watched her were moved to trace her 
objection to its source. However, there was no underthought in 
her own mind to prevent her from disclosing the thought that was 
uppermost. 

‘ How you do such things, dear Mrs. Godfrey, I don’t know !’ 
she exclaimed, with that brightness of emphasis which was one of 
her most prominent social attractions. ‘ It is all very well to care 
for the poor,* she went on, quite seriously now. Miss Douglas was 
an artist in the lights and shades of vocal expression ; and many a 
struggling histrionic aspirant, struggling with a strongly-artistic 
inward impetus overbalanced by ignorance of all the requisite out- 
ward culture — many such might have envied Gertrude Douglas her 
instinct of intonation. It was strange that all inward illumination 
should be wanting, all spiritual inspiration denied. 

‘ It is all very well for one to care for the poor,’ she said quite 
gravely, ‘ but to care for them is one thing, to endure . . . the — 
shall I say, for politeness’ sake the odour of their dwellings, is 
another. We are all bound to care for the common peopie ; 
whether we are bound to endure the . .* 

Miss Douglas did not finish her remarks. Her phrase, the ‘ com* 


AT THE OLD HOUSE ON THE PORECLlFF. 253 


mon people,’ had so roused one of her interlocutors that he did not 
perinit her to finish. 

He repeated the phrase, in tones of indignation he was sorry 
afterward to have used to a guest. 

‘ Common people 2 Why do we use that phrase ?’ he asked, ‘or 
rather, why do we use it speaking only of the poor ? It is so 
senseless I If we mean ‘‘ vulgar,” either in the old sense or the 
new, let us say so. . . . Common ! I fancy we might find two un- 
common characters among the very poor for one among the classes 
above them in possessions, in culture. Besides, there is such a 
terrible ring of would-be superiority in the way we use the words 
nowadays.’ 

It was characteristic that Miss Douglas only laughed pleasantly 
as the Canon concluded, and even while she laughed she darted 
most charming glancesof understanding, first to Mrs. Godfrey, then 
toward the head of the table where the Canon sat, already half 
ashamed of his vehemence. 

‘ Gertrude, you are the best-tempered girl in the world,’ he said, 
in own generous straightforward way. ‘ You never take offence ! 

‘ Take offence at you !’ she replied, her bright eyes just a little 
moistened with a tear not meant to fall. The little episode was all 
forgotten long before Mrs. Godfrey left her at her father^s door, 

‘ Come again soon, dear ; to-morrow, if you can,’ Mrs. Godfrey 
exclaimed, kissing her hand to the doctor’s daughter as the carriage 
drove away. Then she sank back among her cushions, silent and 
lonely. She was apt to admit that her own thoughts were never 
very good company. 

The Rectory carriage had ceased to make much sensation on the 
Forecliff. A neighbour or two ran out to watch the progress of 
the vehicle up the narrow street, the rough little lane bordered 
with dusty coltsfoot. Two little lads — they were Jack and 
Zebulon— stood at the top of the lane, and went running into the 
Sagged House as the carriage came ; but alas for all Mrs, God- 
frey’s amiable intention, it was only old Hagar who came out. 

‘ Eh, my laady,’ she exclaimed, dropping an unwonted curtsey, a 
rare thing on the Forecliff. ‘ Eh, madam, but Bab’s not here. It’ll 
be her yer wantin’ for sure ?’ 

‘Yes, I was wishing to see Barbara,’ Mrs. Godfrey exclaimed, 
leavir.g the carriage and going toward the door of the house. 
‘ May I come in ?’ she asked with an amiable smile, and passing on 
in her grand, stately way. No wonder poor old Hagar was over- 
powered, and hardly knew what she said or did. 

The cottage fire was low and gray ; the fireside, which had 
always been so bright and clean, was heaped with dust and ashes. 
Wooden washing-tubs filled with dirty clothing and dirty water 
stood in muddy pools upon the brick floor, upon chairs, upon 
stools ; the remains of the dinner stood in unsavoury untidiness 
upon the table by the window. The two boys, unkempt, uncared- 
for in every way, stood by the old oak buieau, looking as if they 


t§4 


IN exchange for a soul. 


did not understand this new order of things. Hagar was drying a 
sloppy chair with her apron for Mrs. Godfrey to sit upon, talking 
volubly all the while ; and in such evidently heartfelt accents of 
regret that she was already forgiven. In her own heart Mrs. God- 
frey was less hard upon dirt and disorder than some who are fain 
to profess a greater tolerance. 

‘Eh, but I is sorry, I is despert sorry,’ the old woman was saying. 
‘ Bab’ll never forgie ma, niver. She telPd me so surely ’at Ah 
wasn’t to meddle wi’ no washin’ ; there was clean things anuff an’ 
te spare tell she came back. So there would ha’ been, but when 
Suze Andoe came in yesterday, an’ saw as A’d nowt to do, she 
offered ma ninepence ef A’d wesh a few things oot for her , an’ so 
Ah started this mornin’ : an’ then Suzy came in wiv her pipe an’ 
sat an’ talked, an’ smooked, so as Ah couldn’t get on a bit. An' 
here I is I Eh, what would Barbarie saay if she could see you i’ 
sike a muddle as this !’ 

It was some time before Mrs. Godfrey could make herself heard. 

Old Hagar’s hearing was less quick than her tongue. In answer 
to the inquiry of the Rector’s wife as to where Barbara Burdas 
might have gone, a very flood of words was poured out, explaining 
things past, present, and to come. 

First came a history of the poverty that was universal on 
the coast about Ulvstan, its cause, its duration, with many details 
quite irrelevant. Next, evidently coming somewhat nearer to the 
point, old Ephraim Burdas’s biography was given from Hagar’s 
first recollection to the last. 

‘ An’ when I heerd tell o’ the old man’s wantin’ te goa to sea 
again, wantin’ so terribly as they saay he did, why Ah’d nobbut 
one thowt. Ah’ve heered tell on it afore, my laady, that despert 
longin’ ’at comes upon a seafarin’ man — a longin’ just te god one 
more voyage — that’s hoo they put it, orrayther hoo it’s put te them. 
An’ when they can’t but goa, when noa reason ’ll touch ’em, noa 
beggin’ nor prayin’ move ’em, why then folks begin to see ; an’ 
they saay “ good-bye,” knowin’ ’at all’s overed. . . , It was so i’ this 
case, my laady, in was indeed ; an’ Bab knowed it. An’ when the 
old man had fairly gone, she broke doon, an’ cried as Ah’d niver 
seen her cry afore — noa, nut even when both father an’ mother 
were drooned afore her eyes. She were that sure ’at she’d never 
set her eyes on the old man again.’ 

‘ But you say that she has gone to him, to Hild’s Haven ?’ Mrs. 
Godfrey inquired, recalling to the old woman’s mind an admission 
she had made at first. 

‘ Ay, so she hes ; an’ glad anuff she were to goa.’ 

‘ How long is it now since she went ?’ 

‘ How long ? Weel, let ma see ! It’s a week noo, more or less, 
sen’ the letter com’ — a letter fra the master, Christifer Baildon. 
He’s part owner o’ the schooner, a trader she is, tradin’ atween 
Hild’s Haven an’ London. He was wantin’ a extry hand this sum- 
mor, as Ephraim had h-eerd tell, an’ so they agreed ; an’ Ephraim 


AT THE OLD HOUSE ON THE FORECLIFF. 255 

sailed, an* had a prosperous voyage anuff tell they got back te Hildas 
Haven. An’ just afore they landed the old man sickened all at once, 
an’ he was that bad ’at the master wrote for Bab te goa at once if so 
*twere ’at she cared te see him alive. So it were ’at she went, at 
a minnit’s notice ; an’ she’d no thought o’ takin’ noan o’ the bairns 
save Nan’s Ildy ; but at the last minit little Ailsie began te cry i* 
that brokken-hearted way ’at Bab could niver stand. An’ bearin’ 
Ailsie, little Steve began te cry just i’ the saame fashion. Bab 
turned as white as a sheet. “Put ’em up a night-goon apiece, 
Hagar/’ she said ; for she was washin’ an’ dressin’ t’ infant just 
then. “ Ah’U take ’em wi’ me, them two,” she went on. An’ Ah 
‘daured not gainsay her. So it was she went ; an’ so it is ’at 
Ah’me here wi’ Jack and Zeb ; but Ah’s despert sorry about the 
weshin’.’ 

Mrs. Godfrey had listened with an interest only equalled by her 
patience. Till the tale was done she hardly knew how some touch 
of weirdness in the old woman’s language and manner had affected 
her. 

It is hardly too much to say that the Kector’s wife felt as if she 
had been listening to the story of the going forth of some sentence 
of doom, a very indefinite sentence, but involving disaster. 

Mrs. Godfrey was so far from being a superstitious woman that 
those who knew her best considered her most incredulous on any 
matter touching upon things unseen. 

And it was no mere profession, no mere light, clever, sarcastic 
way of making a drawing-room full of people wonder at her ready 
word, or envy her strong clearheadedness. She was undoubtedly 
free from the awe and dread of things not comprehended that 
accompany some people from the cradle to the grave. 

Yet at this moment, in the fisherman’s cottage, she sat silent and 
chill, wrought upon by what might certainly have been termed ‘ an 
old wife’s’ tale. When it was so termed later, Mrs. Godfrey heard 
the accusation, and did not reply. At this moment her words were 
not ready ; she was silent awhile. Then she asked of Hagar, 
speaking in an aimless way : 

‘Was it wise of Barbara to take the little ones, three of them, 
and one an infant but a few months old ?’ 

‘ Wiae^ my laady ! It were madness, just that ! An’ for Bab te 
do such a thing~her of all others ! . . . Eh, well, there’s more i’ 
the world, oi’ hut just outside the worlds nor we know on. An’ folks 
can’t do as they will. We noan on us can. An’ Ah’m noan goin’ 
te blame Barbarie, let what come on it will, Ah’ll noan saay one 
word o’ blaame mysel’. . , . Ah’d be an ungraateful wretch if Ah 
did, seein’ all she’s done for me I’ 

‘ Blame her, poor child 1 Who will do that, I wonder ?’ Mrs. 
Godfrey said, rising to go. 

She had a basket in her hand with some strawberry jam for the 
children, and a packet or two of expensive farinaceous food for 
Barbara’s baby, and the basket w^ Jeft behind 4 little sadly. 


256 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


Mrs. Godfrey had taken her seat in the carriage, the coachman 
was prepared to start, when all at once the postman came up, 
handed a letter to old Hagar, which the old woman took with a 
dropping at the corners of her mouth that touched the Rector’s wife 
piteously. 

‘Stay a moment, Woodward !’ she exclaimed ; then, turning to 
Hagar, she said gently, ‘ Can you read the letter ? Is it from Bar- 
bara ? If it is, I should so much like to know what she says.* 

It wa^ from Barbara, as the old woman knew it must be. And 
it was so long since she had received any letter that she shook with 
dread, as she took it in her brown withered hands. 

There was nothing dreadful about this epistle. It was clearly 
and carefully written. In writing it, Bab had wondered much 
into whose hands it must fall before Hagar could be made to under- 
stand its purport. 

It was dated from Hild’s Haven, from a small house near the 
quay, where old Ephraim had been received on his landing. 

‘ He had been very ill,’ Barbara wrote, ‘ and when I came he was 
not much better. Now he is quite well in health, yet not like him- 
self, not at all. Though he is not unhappy, he has not the spirit 
he used to have. Often, in days gone by, I have wished h,e was a 
little bit more quiet and gentle ; now I would give anything to 
hear him fly and snap at one in the old way. But he does not ; and 
I think he never will again. I am so glad I brought the little ones, 
because he seems never tired of seeing them ; and with trying to 
amuse them he amuses himself. 

‘ The people here are very good. Still it is expensive, and costs 
more than I have to pay with, as the Captain knows. He is very 
kind, and to save railway fare he is going to let me and the children 
come back in the schooner all the way to the Balderstone. He could 
have put us ashore a lot easier at Danesborough, as I pointed out to 
him, but being so kind, he said it wouldn’t make much difference 
to him if he left us, so to speak, on our own doorstep. I shall 
never forget him for being so good to Ildy and Ailsie ; and I do 
believe he’ll be even kinder to grandfather than he was before. 

‘ I expect we’ll be at home two days from this. That will be 
Friday ; but whether it will be the fore part of the day or the 
latter part, I can’t tell. We shouldn’t have had this chance, but 
just now the Lavhd o’ the Leal wanted some slight repairs, which is 
being done here, 

‘ Give the little lads a kiss apiece, and tell them how it comforts 
me to feel so sure that they are behaving well, and especially being 
good to you. 

‘ May God bless all of you — that is the prayer made many times 
both by night and by day by 

* Your friend, 

‘Barbara Burpas.* 


* GO AND PRA Y—THE NIGHT DRAWS NEAR* 257 


Mrs. Godfrey read the letter aloud to old Hagar, who listened, 
still tremulous, but inclined to be tearful. 

‘ O’ Fridaay, laady — you saay she cornin’ o’ Friday I Well, may 
the Lord be thanked, for I’ve had such dread o’ my mind— suclEi 
straange dread ! . . . An’ you saSy old Ephraim’s better, an’ they’re 
cornin’ back ! They’re all cornin’ o’ Fridaay ! Well, well 1 But 
it is straange !’ 


CHAPTER LYII. 

‘GO AND PRAY— THE NIGHT DRAWS NEAR.* 

• A shadow on the moonlight fell, 

And murmuring wind and wave became 
A voice whose burden was her name.’ 

J. G. Whittieb. 

That so much of all that is hidden from the wise and prudent 
should be revealed unto those who are verily babes in this world’s 
wisdom is undoubtedly a striking thing, and not easily intelligible 

To become intimately acquainted with a poor and uneducated 
man or woman who has passed, or, better still, is at present passing, 
through the deeper seas of spiritual experience, is to feel the scales 
falling from one’s eyes — the scales of ignorance, of misconception. 

If one can pass, as it were, behind the phraseology, which to 
some people may be so banal, so commonplace, as to be utterly un- 
meaning — nay, almost revolting — if one can do this — and it is not 
always difl&cult — then it is that one finds one’s self face to face with 
that wonder, that mercy for which our Master uttered the words, 
‘ I thank Thee, O Father !’ 

The inner life of David Andoe had for a long period of time 
been a life of struggle, of hours, nay, days of darkness, of heavi- 
ness, of almost despair. 

Is it not of itself a strange thing that a man so ignorant, so 
utterly uncultured, unintellectual in almost every sense of the 
word — is it not matter for wonder that such a one should still be 
convinced in his own mind that somewhere, somehow to be obtained 
even by him, there* is a state of peace, of mental and spiritual 
quiet ; a state into which no dread of the vast unknown future 
can enter — the future that lies beyond the day of death — a state 
over which but little disquiet as to the present — this sad, troubled, 
wearying, worrying present — can ever prevail ? Is not this assur- 
ance a strange thing, we repeat ? 

All the while David Andoe had had this conviction. He had 
even held it through one of the two most terrible tests that can 
come to any human being — the test of a strong, overpowering 
affection, broken or bereaved. 

He had had but little help from without. The Zion Chapel 
people had not understood him altogether ; and of late they had 
Tiot even made pretence of greatly sympathising with him. That 

' 17 


258 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


a man who had been prayed with and for during a space of over 
two years should not yet have ‘ found salvation ^ was an almost 
unheard-of thing, and the cause of much doubtful speculation. 

The result of ^1 this was to throw the man more and more upon 
himself ; and his very loneness grew more and more a terrible 
thing. 

One thing he had for which he could be greatly thankful — he 
could pray. And now so long he had prayed amongst the rocks 
and weed-grown boulders of Ulvstan Bight that it seemed as if the 
place must for ever be a holy place to him. Though he did not 
actually put off his shoes as he approached, he yet drew near the 
spot in that attitude of mind symbolized by the act of uncovering 
the feet or head. It is for ever true that for each one of us our 
holy ground must be the place we have made holy by our own 
prayer — our own prayerful suffering. 

There are other grounds holy to us, consecrated to us by the 
holiness, the suffering of other lives. So it is that 

* The whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the Feet of God.* 

That night was a memorable night in the history of David 
Andoe. 

Already he had passed through an hour that he knew to be a 
crisis in his life— one of those hours that lie enshrined in the 
memory Of most people who have any inner life at all. He had 
begun by feeling an unusual sense of darkness, of depression. His 
life was a failure ; his sins were deep and dark beyond the possi- 
bility of forgiveness. His very prayers were unanswered ; and so, 
doubtless, unheard. For years he had waited for a sign ; and yet 
no shadow of a sign had been given. 

But to-night, less than an hour ago, a great change had passed 
upon the man. 

While he prayed the cloud was lifted, the cloud that had rested 
upon all his later life. 

He could not have described the hour, or his experience of it, 
with any definiteness. He only knew that where all had been 
misery and heaviness, now there was a sense of happiness. Where 
darkness had been, now light reigned. The hopelessness that had 
crushed him to the earth was turned to a sudden lightness and 
buoyancy, to the feeling that enables a human being to meet on 
equal terms any other arbiter of the changes and chances of human 
life. 

In one way or another, are we not each of us the determining 
quality of the truth or untruth of the life of some other one ? 

The Divine Love, moving within us like all other love that is 
pure and true, is for ever unselfish. 

Its first thought is not ‘ Am I my brothers kee' er ?’ but rather 
this, ‘ Where is my brother ? Let me find him, that this my 


* GO AND PRAY — THE NIGHT DRAtVS NEAR.* 259 

happiness may overflow upon him; that I may have the increased 
happiness of feeling that his sympathy is deepening the. channels 
of my own.’ 

Not consciously, not articulately do these thoughts come ; nor do 
they bring surprise. They are part of the natural sequence of the 
supernatural life. 

It was growing late now ; and David was turning to go home 
when he discerned among the rocks and stones of the beach another 
Jigure, the figure of a wanderer lonely as himself. Some tia e 
passed before he knew that the wanderer was no other than Hartas 
rheyn. 

It is quite probable that neither of these men recognised each 
other with perfect calmness. David was the first to speak. 

‘Ah’d no thought to meet you here to-night, sir I’ he said with 
unembarrassed simplicity. But even as he spoke it struck him why 
it was that he had this unusual opportunity. He had not been 
without a touch of fear himself. 

The past week had been a week of most variable weather. The 
wind had repeatedly risen to a gale with appalling suddenness, and 
then as suddenly sunk to a dead calm. This is the weather the 
fisherman dreads most of all, and with good reason. 

More than once during the past five days the fishing-boats had 
had to fly with all the speed they were capable of to the nearest 
safe shelter. 

It was thus that it happened that David Andoe was at hoC© on 
a comparatively favourable night. Neither he nor his mates had 
trusted to the promise of the earlier evening. 

‘ Ah^d no thought to meet you here, sir !’ David began. Then 
presently he added, ‘ Yet Ah may almost say as how Ah feared it 
was you.’ 

‘Feared !* Hartas Theyn exclaimed wonderingly. 

‘ Ay, that was how Ah put it, sir !’ was the reply. * An’ Ah 
think as mebbe ye know boo Ah meant it — not i’ noa awk’ard waay 
— far fra that ! . . . Naay, to tell the trewth, it was the fear i’ 
mysel’ as was the ground o’ my fearin’ it was you. If one hes abit 
o’ oneasiness that oneasiness grows when ya know other folks is 
feelin’ the same.’ 

‘ Then you know nothing ?’ Hartas asked, with deadly sinking 
about his heart. 

‘Nothin’, sir. We looked for the passin’ o’ the Land o’ the Leal 
last night. . . . An’ she’s never passed.’ 

‘ And you have no news ?’ 

David hesitated a moment before replying. 

‘ Noan to speak on, sir,’ he said at last. * The schooner left 
Hild’s Haven.’ 

‘ You know that ?’ 

* Yes : we know that.' 

‘ And— and old Ephraim Burdas was on board ?’ 

*01d Ephraim, an’ Barbarie, an’ the three little child er.* 

17—2 


jrzv EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL 


^6o 

Again there was silence, prolonged, painful, pregnant. 

‘ And you say there has been no tidings at all Hartas inquired 
again, as if incredulous, 

‘Noiin, sir — noa tidings.’ 

Something in the fisherman^s reply, some touch of insouciance 
mingled with sadness, awoke a feeling that was as a momentary 
ray of hope. 

‘ Then what are people thinking — what are they hoping T Hartas 
asked, with just a slight infusion of impatience. It was well sub- 
dued ; and the quiet moonlight resting upon the wan worn features 
of a man yet so young betrayed how deep was the emotion at the 
root of the momentary absence of control. 

David quite understood ; and since to understand is usually to 
sympathise, he hastened to disclose his own view to its last outline. 

‘ It’s so, sir. They’d leave Hild’s Haven last night — there’s noa 
doobt o’ that I An’ then, as it’s reckoned, about three hours or so 
ef ter they left the harbour mouth a squall swept up, an’ two fishin’ 
boats as was enterin’ Hild’s Haven was both upset on the bar, an’ one 
man was droonded— only one oot o’ seven, but he’d a wife an’ five 
little childer at home, an’ another expected. That other was born at 
midnight, so I’ve just been told, an’ half an hour later the dead 
body o’ the father was carried into the same room ; they’d nobbut 
orre, so they could do no other. . , , Ab’d just been thinkin’ o’ that 
woman, sir, she’s under thirty yet — a young woman — so te saay ; 
and five bairns aboot her bed, a new-born bairn in her arms, an’ the 
dead body of as fine a fellow — as fine, an’ tall, an’ stoot a fellow as 
ya ever saw — he mun be lyin’ close by the bed somewhere. Yes, I 
was thinkin’ on it all, sir, an hoor agone, an’ — I’ve no shame i’ con- 
fessin’ it — I was prayin’ as God would help her — help her specially, 
so to speak, durin’ the two or three daays to come. ... I was 
strangely drawn to dwell upon the moment when they’ll bear that 
man’s body away fra the woman’s sight an’ side. , . , Good Heaven 
Hoo will she bear it ?’ 

All the while Hartas Theyn stood, his pale face uplifted in the 
moonlight, and silence, a desire for silence, written in his every 
feature. . He spoke at last. 

‘ And you say that squall came on after the Land o' the Leal 
had left Hild’s Haven ?’ 

‘ Yes, a good bit efter, maybe a couple o’ hours. . , . But Ah’d 
not argue the worst fra that ; noa, nor a good bit off the worst. 
The schooner was — she is a tidy little thing, a real Hild’s Haven 
bottom, an’ well set up wi’ gear . She’d meet the squall ; I’m 
feared there’s noan much room toi uoubt ’at she would meet it, but 
it ’ud be as nowt, bless ya, as nowt at all to a trim little craft like 
that wi’ two such men on board as Christifer Baildon an’ Peter 
Grainger. An’ they’ve been blown oot o’ their waay, there’s little 
doubt o’ that. My idee is this, they’ve gone further oot to sea than 
they reckoned o’ goin’, that is just when the squall was on, an’ soS 
they’ve been blown past — I mean to saiiy past the Light o’ Ulvstau, 


* GO AND PDA Y—THE NIGHT DRA WS NEAR.' 26 t 


where they meant to stop for a few minutes so as to land Barbarie 
an’ the little uns. . . . So as you see, sir, there’s no need to fear ’at 
any ill has befallen ’em. Noan at all ! Why Ah doan’t feel a bit 
down’d myseF, an’ they say i’ the Bight that Ah’s one o’ that sort 
’at’s quicker to see trouble nor happiness. . . . Well, mebbe itis 
soa, happiness being so scarce in a man’s life !’ 

Hartas Theyn bad never been without human understanding of 
a certain kind of human grief. Now his one fierce anticipation of 
trouble apart, he was yet concerned for the trouble, past and pre- 
sent, of this soul so near his own, yet so far away. 

If one had time and space to put the matter clearly it would be 
easy to show bow the change, the crisis, in David Andoe’s soul 
wrought a way into the soul of the man who had been what the 
world about them counted ‘ a rival.’ 

In this hour they were as brothers — brothers newly acquainted, 
seeing and glad to see the touches of relationship on either 
hand. 

There was no gushing ; few words of any kind attested the 
emotion that was swaying the heart of each. 

David Andoe’s last word touched Hartas to the core of his soul. 
It was not a word of complaint, still less of reproach, but it 
betrayed the man’s life-long struggle with loneliness, with misery, 
with hopelessness. Rebuke was not present, either in word or 
tone, and it may be that for this very reason self-reproach struck 
more keenly to the heart of the Squire’s son. A word, a mere 
word, would at one time have aroused to the uttermost the antago- 
nistic spirit so strong within him ; but though even that word was 
now unuttered his conscience was not quiet. 

‘ It is difficult to speak of these things,’ he said, resting his hand 
upon a big boulder overgrown with the dark brown wrack, and still 
wet with the receding tide. The smell of the salt weed was about 
them everywhere ; the moonlight poured its silvery tide over the 
top of the black headland that was the northern bound of Ulvstan 
Bight ; there was a rippling, quivering stream of light stretching 
out across the waters of the German Ocean, and here and there the 
same light was dropping deep reflections into the pools that were 
between the tall dark masses of fallen rock. Here, if anywhere, 
might a man be moved to deliver himself of any painful or perilous 
aggregation lying deep under the surface of his soul. 

‘ It is difficuit, it would be as painful to you as to me, if I were 
to say all I would wish to say,’ Hartas Theyn had begun. And 
David Andoe discerned the signs of effort, the pallid face, the 
quivering lip, the quick, short-coming breath. 

‘ It isn't easy to say all one would like to say,’ the Squire’s son 
began in reply to David Andoe’s last remark. ‘ I’ve thought of you 
often of late, and specially when I’ve had trouble of my own. . . . 
It’s then one begins to think of other folks, to wonder if one’s 
injured them in any way. An’ I’ve not been without fear, not by 
no means. . . Still, let me say this for myself, I never meant to 


262 


m EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


injure no man. When I first knew I cared for her — for Barbara 
Biirdas— she was a little child, a hardworking, thoughtful, winning 
child — you couldn’t look at her as she lifted her basket of bait up 
the rough steps of the rocks, but you were drawn to look at her 
again ; maybe to smile because she was such a little thing, so small, 
so gentle, and had set herself to such big efforts. But she usually 
did all she had marked out for herself to do ; and any chance 
assistance was not acknowledged too graciously. The very root of 
her nature is independence. . . . But I am wandering away from 
what I meant to be the point— my one fear lest you should think I 
had done something to turn her affection away from you, . . . Will 
you believe. . . .’ 

‘ Stop, sir !’ David Andoe interposed solemnly, and as he spoke a 
great gray cloud swept up over the moon ; the waters seemed to 
quiver more coldly under the shadow. The moment was dark, and 
chill, and heavy with unaccustomed heaviness. 

‘ Will you stop, sir ?' David begged. ‘ An’ let me say a word, first 
of all a word o’ confession. Ah’ve not been without feelings o’ 
bitterness toward you, naay, mebbe o’ worse nor that ; but Ah’ve 
generally prayed again’ all such till they’ve been a bit softened. , . . 
An’ now all such is done awaay — ay, done awaay for iver ! . . . Ah- 
can see it all so plain. Bab’s never cared for me, not i’ that way ; 
an’ Ah do firmly believe^ sir, as she never would. So you see, 
accordin’ to my oan showin’ AhVe no cause o’ bitterness toward 
you. An’ Ah’m glad, right down glad to hev a chance o’ sayin’ so ; 
an’ somehow. Ah can hardly tell why, Ah’m glad at that chance has 
come to-night.’ 

Hartas held out his hand ; the fisherman grasped it warmly, 
silently. There was no need of words of assurance. 

So they parted that night, not knowing how they were to meet 
again. 


CHAPTER LVIIL 

•upon the wave-edged sand.* 

‘ What is to-day that we should fear to-day ? 

A morrow cometh which shall sweep away 
Thee and thy realm of change and death and pain.* 

Christina Kossetti. 

It is strange to note how sometimes a rumour will creep, and grow, 
and spread, passing so slowly as to lose all zest in the passing. 
While another rumour, perhaps not more startling and important, 
will all at once spring to its position as an absorbing and over- 
whelming topic. The latter was the way in which fear as to safety 
of the Land o’ the Leal spread through Ulvstan Bight and the 
neighbourhood. All at once, so it seemed, the very darkest views 
were taken. And nothing came to relieve the darkness. 


* UPON THE WAVE-EDGED SAND* 


263 

David An doe had firmly and fully believed in the theory he had 
put before Hartas Theyn as to the schooner’s possible chance of 
safety. No, one else believed in it much. 

The general impression, the one that had started into life 
so suddenly on the morning following the meeting of the two men 
on the scaur, was one of fear so strong and overpowering that 
it amounted to certainty. 

Accustomed as the people of Ulvstan Bight were to storm and 
wreck and every kind of sea- wrought disaster, there was yet a new 
and appalling element in the impression caused by the loss of the 
Land o’ the Leal. 

It was not new that a woman should suffer shipwreck, that 
children should suffer with her ; the annals of Ulvstan Bight were 
saddened by many records of whole families going down together, 
the mother with the babe in her arms ; the father, clasping his 
infant son ; but that a girl not yet twenty, a girl known and 
admired as Barbara Burdas had been, should perish with the child 
of her adoption, her own little brother and sister suffering at the 
same time and in the same almost mysterious way, was harrowing 
to a degree not surpassed by any catastrophe that had occurred 
within living memory. From the moment when rumour first began 
to stir, it darkened the daily life of the place ; and conviction put 
as it were a drag to the wheels of existence. During those hours 
if a man neglected his work it was considered a sufficient excuse if 
he declared that he could not occupy himself as usual with such a 
deadly certain uncertainty hanging over the place. 

Once let the smallest sign be given, were it but washing up of the 
name-board of the Land o' the Leal^ or anything known surely to 
have belonged to the schooner, then anxiety would be at an end, 
emotion would die sadly and slowly down. 

But no sign was given. Another morning broke, the day was 
gray and cold upon land and sea — no storm awoke the echoes that 
slept in the caves of the dark cliffs. The sea stretched from point 
to point, not calm, but with a sad, restless stirring ; the waves 
broke upon the land in a hopeless monotone, falling, spreading, 
sinking slowly back. At nightfall, when the gray changed to 
deeper gray, the wind rose a little, wailed along the beach with a 
hollow sigh that now and then sounded like a moan ; but as the 
darkness deepened the night wdnd dropped again, yielding place to 
a deep and strange silence, broken only by the plashing of the far 
faint wavelets. It was difficult for anyone watching them not to 
feel as if here at least Nature’s sympathy were his. If there were 
no understanding anywhere else, at least there was understanding 
here ; there was no mockery in the wind’s sigh, no incredulousness 
of pain in the ceaseless adagio of the breaking and falling waves. 

During a portion of this time David Andoe was with the fishing- 
boats to the north of Danesborough. He made no inquiries of any- 
one as to the fate of the Lawl 0’ the Leal — there was no need for 
any ; the disappearance of the little vessel was talked of every* 


264 


IN exchange fiOR A SOUL. 


where. If he could have forgotten, if his aching heart might have 
ceased for awhile from its aching, there was no opportunity. And 
his mates knew how it was with him ; they understood why at 
nightfall he sat looking out from the bow of the clumsily-built 
little fishing craft, gazing with all intensity across the wide sea- 
waste before him. What was he looking for? What did he 
expect to see ? It was well known that the missing schooner had 
not carried even the smallest boat. 

Often he thought of, often too he prayed, for another watcher. 
Even there out at sea, he had heard from a little fisher-lad of 
Ulvstan Bight how the Squire’s son had never left the edge of the 
cliff, but walked there, watching and wandering precisely in 
the same manner as others, less than a year ago, had watched 
wearily for him. They had never spoken of that time, the father 
and son, but each had it in recollection ; and it was a memorable 
fact that since then not once had any word of bitterness or anger 
disturbed their intercourse. The change in Hartas was great ; but 
the change in the Squire was perhaps the more striking if rightly 
understood ; the old acerbity seemed dead within him — where he 
could not agree, he was silent ; where he could not admire or 
sanction, he would not see. 

The most curious change of all was in his attitude to his younger 
daughter ; yet this had hardly been noticeable till after the ‘ catas- 
trophe ’ at the Rectory. The Squire heard of his elder daughter’s 
flight in silence, with much perplexity. He had never understood 
her, never seemed to wish to do so ; but Miss Chalgrove had always 
held a private opinion that his indifference to his elder daughter, if 
not exactly feigned, was yet not a real thing, and her opinion was 
strongly confirmed by the manner in which the Squire bore the 
tidings that came to Garlaff that snowy day. He spoke no word 
concerning them ; and when at last he spoke of other things there 
was a marked alteration in his voice and accent — it was as if some 
life had gone out of him, as if some cherished idea had suddenly 
died in his heart. And it was from that hour that he had seemed 
to draw his youngest child nearer to him, that he began to betray 
signs of uneasiness if at any time she were out of his sight for a 
longer while than usual. 

It was to Rhoda alone that he spoke of the trouble that had fallen 
upon Hartas, of the way in which the young man was delivering 
himself over to a useless-seeming and most weary wandering to and 
fro on the cliffs by the sea. 

‘ Let him alone,’ the Squire said, in answer to Rhoda’s wish that 
her father would try the effect of persuasion. ‘ Let him alone. I 
know what it is. He’s better there watchin’ so long as there’s a ray 
of hope alive in him ; he’ll see when there’s no more use i’ 
hopin’.’ 

‘ He’ll be out of his mind by that time,’ said the brusque Rhoda. 

* Not he,’ was the father’s reply. ‘ There never was a mad Theyn 
yet ; the first won’t be Hartas.’ 


* UPON THE WAVE-EDGED SAND.' 


265 


So it came to pass that Hartas was left alone to wander to and 
fro from Saxby Head to Penstone Point, a range of some twelve or 
fourteen miles of rugged coastline. Now he slept for a few hours 
in a cottage here, or stayed for a meal at some roadside inn there, 
or rested for a brief time by the fireside of some stray farmhouse 
perched upon the edge of the barren cliff. People began to know 
him, to question each other, and by-and-by the true reason of his 
wandering spread. Many of the people who listened had heard the 
story of his own escape, and were interested in seeing him on that 
account alone. Others were more drawn by the idea of his present 
hopeless search ; for hopeless it was acknowledged to be now, since 
so long a time bad gone by since the little schooner should have 
passed by Ulvstan Bight, leaving her ‘ passengers * at the extreme 
point of the Balderstone. 

As a matter of course poor old Hagar and the two little lads were 
not left alone with their fear and their sorrow in the Sagged House. 
The Kector and his wife went there frequently, seldom finding the 
old woman alone. All the Forecliff would have been glad to help 
in such a case as this. 

More than once Hartas had called as he passed, drawing the boys 
to his side, offering them his knife as a present, letting them look 
inside his watch as an enjoyment, but doing all this with hands that 
trembled before the children, for were they not Barbara's brothers, 
her own especial care ? Had she not lavished upon them such love 
as he had been glad to know, aye, even the shadow of such great 
love ? The little fellows were commonplace enough, stupid rather 
than rough, inanimate rather than rude ; but the younger of the 
two had a decided resemblance to Barbara — a resemblance to be 
found mainly in the deep blue-gray eyes, which had in them a 
certain promise for the future. The lad would never be a clever 
man in any sense of the term ; and to his life’s end it would be an 
easy matter for the veriest fool to impose upon him. Yet there was 
capability of a kind, capacity for being mildly good, quietly inoffen- 
sive. Hartas was drawn to this small brother of Barbara’s. If . . 
if the worst should be, he would be a father to the little lad. 

* If ’ the worst should be I There was not another soul now in 
Ulvstan Bight or the neighbourhood but did not consider the worst 
a foregone conclusion. 

And still Hartas walked there. The days had no names for him 
— no dates. He only knew that now it was light — now dark ; and 
that always the great gray sea was void to him, having on its 
surface no trace of the sign he watched to see. 

What did he dream of seeing ? 

He did not know, not any more than David Andoe knew. These 
men were each of them too well acquainted with the ocean and its 
disasters to dream that now the Land o’ the Leal might come in 
sight, her sails set, her colours flying, signalling to any who might 
be watching for her return, ‘ I have been blown out to sea !’ 

This, so easily brought to pass in a work of fiction, could, even as 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL 


2 ^ 

an idea, only have raised a smile on the lips of anyone living by the 
shores of Ulvstan Bight. Yet they continued to watch — some 
fitfully and at intervals ; one, only one, quite ceaselessly. He 
would remain till some sign came to him, telling him that his watch 
was ended. 

He knew now that it was nightfall again — and he knew that his 
heart w^as beating more faintly, his hope sinking till it might as 
truthfully have been called despair ! 

The sun had sunk into the sea, a faint pale gold orb of light into 
fc rippling expanse of pale gold water. There was not a sail in 
sight, not the thinnest line of smoke to darken the gold and gray of 
the sky. 

Though the evening was so clear, so transparent, yet not to 
Hartas Theyn alone, but even to others, there was the touch of sad- 
ness upon it. It was as the eve that comes before some day of 
trouble, of deep pain. 

And as the darkness grew, the deathlike stillness seemed to grow 
also. It was a solitude that brought no peace to the solitary man 
who yet went to and fro upon the cliff-top ; nay, rather did it seem 
as if the trouble at his heart was stirred to a fresh pain — a keener 
sense of agony ! 

‘ To think of all ending thus P he said to himself — again and 
again he said it. ‘To think of all ending so — in darkness, in 
mystery, in ignorance, in suspense. Was there ever such suspense 
before ? Was there ever ? Every hour is a lifetime — a lifetime 
of agony I* 

‘ Is there no hope — none, nowhere ?’ 

Then thought failed him while imagination dwelt once more, or 
tried to dwell, upon some last dread possible scene ; the scene that 
might have happened, nay, that must have happened, as he now saw, 
on that night when the schooner encountered the squall not more 
than an hour or two after leaving Hild’s Haven. The most hopeful 
people had admitted long ago that the end had come then. 

All the while the light was fading, the waves gently rising and 
falling ; and, as he had done before, Hartas went down to the beach 
to walk by the water’s edge. There, if anywhere, would be found 
some token— a plank of wood, a portion of a rudder, a strip of sail, 
or— or some other thing I Hartas hardly dared to dwell upon the 
possibilities that thrust themselves before his mind’s eye. He was 
now searching for all he dreaded most to find. 

He went down the cliff by a narrow but little-used and difficult 
path ; indeed, it only led to a farmhouse in the hollow by Balders 
bank. There was just light enough for him to discern the steps 
cut in the clay, a bit of rude railing here and there in dangerous 
parts. 

At one turn, to his surprise, he came upon a little lad, a child of 
not much more than five or six summers, who was laboriously 
climbing the steep steps, a big lump of brown tangle in one hand, a 
scarlet something trailing from the other arm. 


26; 


* UPON THE WAVE-EDGED SAND* 

*Late for you to be down here, young man, isn’t it ?* asked 
Hartas of the little fellow, who looked up in silent stupidity, 
making no effort to answer. 

Then there was a pause — a shock — an effort. 

* Wliat have you got there? What is it Hartas Theyn asked at 
last, touching (as one touches the cover that is upon the bed where 
someone is ^taking a last rest) the scarlet shawl that the child 
carried. 

It was a very noticeable shawl — being made of crochet- work, 
and having a wide white border, with some black at the extreme 
edge of that. 

The little fellow began to whimper. 

‘I fund it — I did. ’Twere lyin’ on the sands,* he said almost 
tearfully. ‘ An’ there weren’t nobody there — no, not nobody.’ 

‘Tell me whereabouts you found it,’ Hartas asked, resting a 
reassuring hand upon the child’s shoulder. ‘Where have you 
been ?’ 

‘ Doon there— aside the wather.* 

‘ And this was lying upon the sands ?* 

* Ay, sir. '. . . ’Twere nobbut just oot o* the wather*8 edge.* 

Hartas Theyn felt himself growing suddenly weak, as one stricken 

by illness. Only by determined effort could he keep sufficient power 
to will and to do. 

Not so long ago, wandering one night about the Forecliff, he had 
seen Barbara Burdas standing at the cottage door, the red shawl 
thrown carelessly round her, her strong sweet face uplifted as she 
stood watching the silver clouds that were flying past a wan moon. 
That was the last that he had seen of the shawl that was in his 
hand now, still wet with the salt sea- water, still smelling of the salt 
sea- wrack. 

‘Go home, my little man, go home,’ Hartas said, speaking more 
gently and tenderly than he knew. 

Then, moving as one in a dream, he went rapidly down to the 
beach, expecting (if indeed he expected anything at all) only to be 
mocked by the exceeding nothingness to be found there. 

The child had pointed to a spot a little to the northward, and at 
once Hartas set his face that way. The daylight w.as gone from 
the land, yet out over the sea there was a soft silvery afterglow, 
and there, against the silver light, was a dark outline, the outline 
of a large mass of something that was lying upon the beach. With 
beating heart and brain he still went onward. 

He could never afterwards recall that moment when he first 
recognised that the darkly-outlined ridge was the upturned hull of 
a wrecked vessel. Quite black, quite lone, quite still, the hull 
rested upon the scaur to the north of tie Balderstone, the dark line 
of the keel crossing a bar of silver in the sky. 

Still nerving himself, he went on. He would assure himself of 
the truth — of the worst that might be true — before he yielded to 
the longing that was overcoming him — the longing to care no more, 


268 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


to strive no more, to suffer no more, to lie down and die upon the 
wrack-strewn scaur. 

Then for awhile the afterglow that was in the heavens seemed to 
increase in intens^it}. Hartas Theyn was nearer now to the wreck 
of the schooner, and in the dim light it loomed as the remains of 
some large ship had done. 

The stern of the vessel was toward the sea ; and Hartas went 
round among the slippery pools and the weed -hung stones among 
which the white-edged wavelets were lashing sadly. Quite near 
he came — his eyes seeming to throb and burn in bis head, his heart 
to beat as if it must burst within him ; for by this time the tide 
had turned and the water was rising rapidly. If there had been 
anyone in danger before, that danger was increasing with every 
second. 

It was, as he had known all the while, the schooner in which 
Barbara and the little ones had sailed — the white letters on the 
black name-board attesting the fact. The inscription was, of 
course, upside down, but he did not need to read the words letter 
by letter. 

The Land o’ the Leal : Hildas Haven, 

This was what he saw ; and then for awhile he sat7 no more. 
The temporary oblivion was most merciful. 


CHAPTER LIX. 

ANOTHER SEA-STORY. 

♦They know not that its sails are filled 
By pity’s tender breath ; 

Nor see the angel at the helm 
Who steers the Ship of Death.* 

J. G. Whittieb. 

Ip any member of the Psychological Society were desiring new 
ground for his interesting researches, it is probable that he could 
not do better than betake himself to the remote corners of the 
North Riding of Yorkshire. There are nooks in the dale country, 
there are fishing villages yet uncontaminated by railways, where 
investigations might be made, perhaps with results surprising to the 
most vividly expectant. Legends and traditions not only linger 
there, but are held with a vitality that is most instructive to the 
true student of humanity ; and as a field for the study of com- 
parative folk-lore it is probable that this remote corner of the earth 
might be found to repay real research far better than others that 
are far more known. 

Not altogether ‘ idle tales,’ not altogether * old wives’ fables,’ are 
these brief dramas that pass from lip to lip, from age to age. There 
are those who assert that Homer himself was but a singer of songs 


ANOTHER SEA-STORY. 269 

Inispired by the traditions of his own day. Do we take the less 
account of him for that ? 

Yes, it is intensely interesting to know that one song, one story, 
one heroic tale, has gone the round of the whole wide earth like 
some gossamer circle, binding race to race here, throwiog light upon 
the customs and beliefs of other races there. This is no place to 
enter upon the fascinating theme ; yet it was impossible to avoid 
it altogether, since during those days of anxiety in Ulvstan Bight 
it was asserted everywhere that the spectre-ship had been seen 
crossing the Bight, not only once or twice, but assuredly the third 
fatal time. And after that, who should doubt ? Who should dare 
to doubt ? 

That a ship — a tall, phantom-ship, with white, wide-spread sails 
— should pass thrice across the Bight before any especial disaster, 
was a superstition believed in by all the older people of Ulvstan ; 
and the younger ones seldom expressed any open disbelief. 

When old Hagar Furniss spoke of her vision of the night to the 
Rector of Market Yarburgh, she was met with neither rebuke nor 
ridicule. 

‘ I saw it, sir, the Death-ship ; I saw it wi’ my oan eyes !’ the old 
woman declared. ‘ An’ ’twas noa dream. I’d been asleep — ay, I’d 
slept for hours, so that it must ha’ been near midnight. An’ when 
I wakkened there was a straange leet at the winda — a straange 
breet leet ; an’ I sprung oot o’ bed an’ went to the winda side. An’ 
there it were, sir, the Death-ship^ sailin’ past wiv all her sails set, 
an’ every sail like a sheet o’ spun glass. An’ on she went, glidin’ 
by as never no ship went yet upon the saut-sea watter. . . . An’ 
then Ah knew ’at all were overed ; ’at old Ephraim were tossin’ 
doon i’ the dark sea-tangle ; ’at Barbarie an’ her three little bairns 
were where they couldn’t, Jook upon the light o’ daay. . . . And 
’twere all past in a minnit or two. There were nought left save the 
sea an’ sky, an’ a dismal wind wailin’ i’ the winda where the leet 
had been. . . , ’Twere all overed then, an’ then I knew.* 

* And this was last night — Monday night ?’ 

‘ ’Twere last night, sir,’ the old woman replied sadly and seriously. 
* I’d not much hope before — I’ve noan noo.’ 

Canon Godfrey stood thinking. He recalled to his mind the life- 
long influence in such matters that must have given strong colour- 
ing to Hagar’s expectation. The legend of the spectral ship was, 
as he was well aware, cherished in almost every quarter of the 
globe. And remembering the poor old creature’s intense and 
affectionate anxiety during the past few days, he felt as if he him- 
self, in her place, might also have persuaded himself that he had 
Been the vision. 

Not for one moment did he accuse her of deceitfulness, of mis- 
representation. Some ship or ships she had seen, some white-sailed 
vessel gliding from mist to mist across the summer night ; and her 
mind, apprehensive by reason of her dread, had doubtless construed 
the impressive and unusual natural into the dread supernatural. 


270 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 

He could na5 reason with Hagar ; instead, he tried to comfort 
her. 

‘ There are no tidings,* be said. * But you must not forget what 
strange things have happened, even of late. It is not so long since 
the Swallow was blow quite across to Norway, and no news came 
for over a week. More recently still, the two fishing- boats belong- 
ing to the Graingers were lost in a squall ; one came floating into 
the Bight half filled with water. Two days later the nine men, 
who were being mourned for so passionately, arrived by a late train. 
As you know, they had been picked up far out of their way by a 
passing steamer. . . . What should hinder but that some such 
deliverance should have been wrought now ?* 

The poor old woman could only stand silent, shaking her head 
negatively ; deep in her heart was the conviction that her sorrow 
was that of those who sorrow for the dead. And she did not err. 

It was on that same night, but a few hours later, that Hartas 
Theyn, recovering from a temporary oblivion, found himself lean- 
ing upon the sea-wet side of an upturned ship. There were tears 
on his face ; in his agony he had wept aloud ; but to his astonish- 
ment — nay, to his appalling — there came an answer to his weeping. 
It was an answer that smote him to a strange and sudden coldness. 
As he leaned upon the hull he heard a distant and passionate, yet 
faint, knocking within, on the cabin end of the hull. He listened, 
unbelieving, yet again the knocking came. 

In answer to it he cried — he cried aloud. But he could not be 
sure that he was heard. He listened, he went round the vessel and 
cried again, and listened again, yet he could hear no answer. But 
again the knocking came — twice, thrice repeated in the same feebly 
impassioned manner ; and Hartas Theyn took up a stone and beat 
a loud and long reply upon the blackened side of the little ship. 

Good God I was it possible that any human being could be alive 
there— inside a ship that had been tossing upside down by night 
and by day upon that stormy waste of waters ? If one were alive 
it "was a strange, a miraculous thing ! 

Hartas Theyn was not a seafaring man, and he did not all at once 
realize his position. He hoped to do something, to accomplish some 
rescue, some deliverance immediately. Not one glance or two at 
that stoutly-built schooner, upturned there on the rocky shore of 
the North Sea, showed him all his helplessness. 

And moment by moment that far, faint, entreating sound went 
on. It was as if someone were crying in low, despairing tones, 
saying : ‘ There is one here dying, dying I . . , Will you make no 
effort — none f 

Again Hartas Theyn beat out his reply, again he cried his willing- 
ness, his intense desire. And a sound came from within that was 
as the sound of a human voice, but whether of man, of woman, or 
of child he could not tell. 

And even as he stood there the leaping of the white water about 
his feet awoke him to a fresh horror. The tide was rising. Within 


ANOTHER SEA- STORY. 


271 


an hour or two this wrecked hull would be floated off again : floated 
out to sea with its burden of human life — despairing, appealing 
human life. 

He had no precedent to guide him in such a case as this. Wrecked 
ships had washed ashore, upturned and not upturned ; drowned . 
men had washed up, and men exhausted, yet not drowned ; but that 
a hulk should come to land, turned upside down, and so every 
entrance to its interior closed while yet there was life inside, was 
an occurrence of unexampled horror. What might be done ?’ 

*/ can do nothing alone/' he cried, putting his mouth to a plank 
that he fancied had ‘ started * a little, and so might afford some 
ingress for the sound of his voice. ‘ I can do nothing alone. , . . 
There is no time to be lost ! . . . The tide is coming up. ... I 
will go and get help — a man or two who will help me to cut a hole 
in the hull ! . . . Keep quiet ! . . . Have courage ! I won’t be a 
second longer than I can help P So Hartas Theyn shouted, sentence 
by sentence, and at the last there was a pause. ‘Knock again, if 
you can !’ he begged. ‘ Give three knocks !’ 

And the three knocks came — low, full of effort, eloquent of pain. 

A strange thrill shot through Hartas Theyn as he heard them. 
He could not think — he dared not. One more word of encourage- 
ment he sent back, hoping only that it might be heard ; then with 
swiftest footsteps he went back to the Bight. 

He was breathless when he reached the little town. It was mid- 
night ; not a light in a window was there to guide him. Yet he 
found the house where David Andoe lived ; and, to his extreme 
satisfaction, he found that David had come over from Danesborough 
to spend the night. He often did so, more for the sake of being 
present at the prayer-meeting in Zion Chapel than for any other 
reason. Whatever the cause to-night, he was glad to be there to 
answer Hartas Theyn’s sudden an*d impetuous demand. 

He had opened the door of the cottage at once, and stood there 
dressing himself hastily in the starlight as he listened to the strange 
story that Hartas had to tell. David was quite quiet and very pale, 
yet he did not lose a second. 

‘I’ll get Fossgate and Joe Ganton, carpenters, both o* them, wi’ 
their tools ready i’ the skep. . . . Come on, sir ; ivery few minutes 
means a few inches more o’ watter !’ 

It might be a quarter of an hour later when some six or seven 
men surrounded the hull of the Land d the Leal, There was now 
no more fear that all human help that could be of avail would not 
be given. Yet those who best understood had most dread. 

The tide had risen inevitably, and to a fearful-seeming extent. 
By the time the little band of men came to the upturned vessel, it 
was already floating. 

David Andoe, making a desperate dash at a moment while the 
waves were receding, managed to reach the hull, to hold on fco it, 
and to offer some slight assistance to Hartas Theyn, who had 
instantly followed him. 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


11 % 


As the next wave went back three more men, each with some 
powerful or useful tool in his hand, managed to reach the wreck ; 
and as they clung there, trying to make some arrangement among 
themselves as to the best method of proceeding, again the knocking 
was heard — that far, faint pleading sound that struck upon the ear 
of each one who listened as only sounds from inside some vault or 
grave could have done. There was for these men much the same 
surprise, much the same horror, as they had felt on hearing some 
cry from below the churchyard sod. Yet they thanked God audibly 
that the sound could still be heard. 

‘ While therp’s life there’s hope of life,’ David Andoe concluded ; 
and no more time was wasted in words. The men set to work, one 
and all, hacking, hewing, with passionate vigour. Besides their 
knowledge of the construction of the vessel, of the position of the 
one cabin where alone anyone might be and live, they had also the 
oft-repeated but fainter-growing sounds to direct them. This told 
them that they were not really far from the hand that was making 
that pitiful and most beseeching appeal. Yet for all their effort 
they were not too sanguine. 

To those who know nothing of the building of even the smallest 
ship, it must seem as if it should have been an exceedingly simple 
and easy thing to make entrance through the side of a little coast- 
ing schooner. The boring of a worm can cause a leak to spring in 
the hull of a huge West-Indiaman. A sudden touch upon a rock 
will make opening wide enough for the entrance of water sufficient 
to sink the largest vessel afloat. How strange it seems that half a 
dozen men must bend their utmost effort for some time to cut a 
space wide enough for the egress of a living man or woman. 

Some man or woman ! To the last moment Hartas Theyn would 
not let himself think. To think would, inevitably, be to hope. A 
hope only born to die is one of the bitterest hopes the human heart 
can hold. It seemed to him that he already felt the touch of the 
bitterness to be. 


CHAPTER LX. 

IN THAT SAD NIGHT. 

* Yet it may be that death 
Shall give my name a power to win such tears 
As would have made life precious. ' 

Still they wrought there, making efforts more and more passion- 
ately earnest with each minute that went by. Only now and then 
that low knocking came, just to guide them, as it were, to where 
that terrible suffering was being endured. Very terrible it must 
be, as they knew, whether the sufferer were man, woman or child. 

They did not talk much, these desperate men. The rising tide, 
rising rapidly, caused a perpetual rush and swish of water. All the 
while it was advancing, receding, advancing yet farther. And the 


IN THA T SAD NIGHT. 


273 


wir.d was increasing a little, wailing among the dark rocks,, adding 
to the ripple that was upon the water, lendir" a certain sadness and 
wildness to an hour that was sufficiently sad. No man there had 
known an hour so strange before. 

It was past two o’clock when the clouds swept away from the 
waning moon. It gave but little light, being shrouded from time 
to time with the gray scud that was flying over the heavens. When 
it was freest a broad amber halo was seen to surround it, always an 
ominous sight to the Ashmen of the north. 

Pallid as was this light, it was welcome — most welcome to the 
men there on the upturned hull, riving, striving, rending most 
strenuously among the close-grained planks. They knew what they 
were encountering. They had not now to learn the strength and 
toughness of ‘ a Hild’s Haven bottom,’ ‘ the best and stoutest 
bottoms used in England,’ so Dibdin had declared many a long 
year before. And more than one story of the tenacity of ships 
built at Hild’s Haven passed through the minds of these men who 
were spending themselves in that work of deliverance. 

Car\ it be realized that some hours had passed before any open- 
ing had been made that could be called an entrance? All this 
while Hartas Theyn and David Andoe had wrought side by 
side. 

‘ And all the time I was feeling as if every stroke of my hatchet 
was striking down what was left of the barrier that had existed 
between him and me,’ Hartas Theyn confessed after. ‘ I couldn’t 
understand it. It wasn’t my doing. . . , There was something 
about him, a sort of gentleness, a sort of tender-hearted kindness 
and humble-mindedness, as if he were wishing, all the while, to do 
something for me. He watched me every time I moved, saved me 
when I slipped, helped me when I climbed, and, as I recognised 
later, tried to make the night easier for me than it was for any- 
body else. When I remonstrated, he reminded me of what I had 
gone through myself, and not so long before. 

‘An’ you’re not as we are, sir/ he added. ‘We’re used to the 
night, an’ the sea, an’ the wind, an’ to hardship o’ every sort. It’s 
nought to us — that is, the exposure’s nought. But I reckon we’ve 
noan on us knowed nought of a piece o’ work like this — noa, 
nought like this. • . , God grant they may noan of ’em know 
nought like it again.’ 

And all the while, as the men wrought desperately there, the 
waning moon went sailing to the land ; all the while the wind was 
rising, all the while the waves were advancing and falling and toss- 
ing. At last the fears that had been growing in the hearts of the 
men at work there took on expression. 

‘ What were we thinking on — what could we be thinkin’ on never 
to bring a boat, never to fetch noa boat !’ 

It was David Andoe who asked the question ; and the time was 
somewhere about three in the morning. The same question had 
been in the minds of the other men ; they had needed courage to 

. 18 


274 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


put it into words. More and more they had needed it as the 
necessity for asking it became evident. • 

The hull had been floating some time— now it was drifting out 
to sea I drifting with all its burden of life ; its two-fold burden— 
within and without. 

‘ I’ve knowed it all along/ Joe Ganton said calmly. * IVe seen 
how it would be.* 

‘But you can swim, can*t you, Joe ?’ David Andoe asked. 

* Ay — if Ah seed any good ’i swimmin’.’ 

‘ Then you’re waitin’ to be asked ? This isn’t the time for it. 
Swim ashore as quick as you can, an’ fetch the first boat to be had 
for love or money, never mind which.* 

This was not a difficult matter, but it took time, a longer time 
than had been foreseen. And it was time passed in pain of various 
kinds ; for faster and faster the ship was drifting out to sea, still 
upturned, still bearing its burden of life. But a new strain was 
added to the tension of the hour. There was no longer any 
response from the interior of the hull, and finding this there was 
no heart there but sank to a lower depth than it had known before. 
Hartas Theyn felt that the tools in his hand were now all but 
useless, and even David Andoe knew that he was becoming un- 
nerved. Yet they strove on ; and to good purpose. 

‘ Work away, mates,’ David Andoe begged. ‘ In another quarter 
of an hour we’U be able to enter the hull, some of us.’ 

‘Joe’ll be here wi’ Arklam’s boat i’ less nor that,* was the reply 
of Will Hewitt. 

But both men were mistaken in the matter of time. The moon 
was forty minutes farther on her way when at last an entrance was 
effected into the cabin of the Land o’ the Leal. 

Few words were spoken. 

‘ Go you in,* David Andoe had said to Hartas, when at last it 
was possible for anyone to enter. And as he spoke David struck a 
match and lighted a tiny lantern that had hung at his belt. ‘ Go 
yon in. If she be livin’ she’ll be glad to see you.’ 

Hartas Theyn, white, nay pallid, between the light of the dim 
lantern and the waning moon, looked into David’s face for one 
hesitant moment. A thousand thoughts passed through his over- 
strained brain. 

The task was not without difficulty — not without danger — this 
he knew ; and this it was decided him to accept the offer made in 
all generosity. David Andoe would have been glad to go down 
into that dark depth himself, and he had done it with greater 
facility than could be claimed by the man who went. 

He went with a prayer on his lips. The hull was beginning to 
toss a little wildly and awkwardly in that dark sea. And he knew 
there were no means of guiding or steadying it in the slightest 
degree. 

And there was yet no sign of the much-wished-for boat. Hartas 
turned to look out across the dark surging water as he took th« 


IN THA T SAD NIGHT. 27 5 

lantern In one hand, steadying himself by grasping the newly- 
chipped edges of the planks with the other. 

‘Put yer^foot there,* David Andoe urged, ‘an* lean to the left-- 
to the left^ sir I Then forrard — a bit more forrard. , , . Hold the 
Ian thorn up ! Ay, hold it so ; an* press forrards I* 

It was just at the moment that Hartas Theyn was descending 
through the aperture made in the bottom of the little schooner, 
that suddenly, though perhaps not altogether unexpectedly, the 
hull lurched terribly to one side. 

All happened, so to speak, in a moment. Hartas had entered 
the tiny cabin ; he had discovered at a glance that it already seemed 
filled with water. But there, over on one side, was a sight to tax 
the manhood within him to the uttermost. He looked, he shrank, 
he compelled himself to look again, and from his white lips a cry 
burst — a cry of bitterest anguish ; 

‘ Barbara, Barbara ! for God’s sako speak to me — speak one 
word 1 Say you are alive I* 

The word might have been said, for Barbara Burdas was still 
living ; but it was at that moment that the unmanageable 
hull of the wrecked schooner gave a tremendous roll to the lee- 
ward side. 

The girl was there in the cabin ; she had been there with the 
water up to her waist — nay, higher — for many hours ; and there, 
beside her, their little plump white hands clinging in her strong, 
beautiful hair, were the three little children. 

Hartas Theyn did not know then that two of these little ones 
were dead. He did not know then that the small white fingers 
entwined in the broad red plaits had been entwined in the death- 
agony that had ended hours agone. Barbara knew. She had 
known it all, lived through it all, and was living yet. She turned 
her face to Hartas as he entered — a white, rigid, agonized face. . . , 
She could not speak. The dim lantern threw but a faint light. 
Hartas saw the look turned upon him — that appaling, bewildered 
look — and he saw the other faces behind — one lying white and cold 
upon Barbara’s neck, but yet living. The others he had no time 
to see. No time at all was his, for hardly had he entered the cabin 
— already three-parts filled with water — when another terrible roll 
turned the wrecked hull completely on the other side. The water 
rose even as he looked — rose till it encircled the throat of the girl, 
and only by her utmost effort could she uplift the one child yet 
living above the lifeless forms of the two not alive. Hartas rushed 
toward her, seized the child — it was the baby Ildy — and with his 
disengaged arm he tried to reach Barbara herself ; but she drew 
back. 

‘ Save the little one,* she said in a faint whisper, only just to be 
heard above the gurgling, and rushing, and washing of the water — 
‘ save Ildy ; she’s the only one left to be saved.* 

Save her I But how ? The child*8 fingers were not easily dis- 
entangled from the girl’s long wet hair ; the other little dead white 

18~2 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


275 

hands, rigid, cold, must be left for some one else to unclose. He 
would do what he could for those left living. 

‘ Can you follow me — can you make any elfort to follow me T 
Hartas asked of the exhausted girl. But she only shook her head, 
and held out to him her two poor hands. 

One may not here use the words others used freely in describing 
those hands. They had been used in knocking upon the rough inner 
side of the ship’s hull so long, and with such agonizing effort, that 
not even the water that reached to the topmost beam might wash 
away that which is the sign and mark of the extreme of suffering 
everywhere. 

In a few minutes more the living child was safe in the strong 
arm of one of the men outside ; the two children not living were 
lifted tenderly and gently out from the water-filled cabin. Then, 
just as David Andoe and Hartas Theyn were helping Barbara, 
taking her from out of that dread and terrible prison-house wherein 
she had suffered so long and so unspeakably, just at that moment 
the boat was seen coming swiftly over the dark, gray, restless waters. 
The waning moon had dropped behind the land, large and low, and 
having, as it were, a presage of ill yet to be in its weird aspect ; but 
only one of these rescuers noted the strange light, the still stranger 
shadows. The boat came onward. It was received with a subdued 
shout of welcome ; and as the rowers turned the corner of the 
stern of the swaying hull and pulled up to the side on which 
Barbara Burdas was lying pale, exhausted, at least one strong man 
felt the unaccustomed burning of hot tears on his faee. 

‘ God be thanked !’ David Andoe said reverently, as he caught 
the delivering boat by one of the rowlocks. Hartas Theyn and 
another man were helping Barbara to rise from the wet, dark planks 
of the wrecked hull. ‘ God be thanked I’ he repeated j and no one 
remembered any other word of his. 

CHAPTER IXL 

*AHD AFTER MY LONG VOYAGE I SHALL REST,* 

‘ Here is one who loves yon as of old, 

With more exceeding passion than of old.* 

As Barbara Burdas was lifted carefully, tenderly, by strong and 
tender arms into the fishing-coble (the Lucy Ann, of Ulvatan 
Bight), she heard a voice speaking low at her side : 

‘ Your grandfather — where is he ? Not in the cabin ?* 

Barbara hesitated, a sob escaped her lips, then she said with 
much effort ; 

‘ No ; he’s not there — there’s no one there T 

She could say no more. She knew that the one living child — the 
child of her dead friend — was yet alive ; that it was safe in the 
arms of the fisherman who had seated himself in the stern of the 
coble that was as an ark of safety ; and it seemed to her, in 


^ AFTER MY LONG VOYAGE I SHALL REST* 277 

her dread exhaustion, that there was little else she cared to know 
just then. 

Nature demanded a time of oblivion — a time of forgetfulness of 
all that she had gone through — of all that she had been delivered 
from. To know that she might now not only cease from suffering, 
from enduring, from dreading, from hoping, from praying, but also 
from living, was knowledge to be grateful for. 

She sank down between the planks of the boat, near to the man 
who was holding the child so carefully, and then, closing her eyes, 
she knew no more for awhile. It was well that she did not. It 
was not a long while ; but it was long enough for that to happen 
which was to cause her and others many a long hour of bitter pain 
— of keen regret. 

They were all seated in the coble, the rescuers and the rescued ; 
* her bow was turned to the Bight. The rowers had set themselves 
to work with a will. 

The Lucy Ann was a well-built craft, and, free of fish or nets, 
would have carried sixteen or eighteen men without being over- 
laden ; but the Lucy Ann had no fair chance that dim, gray morn- 
ing. It was really morning now. At first a gray dawn spread 
slowly across the sky ; then, as the sun uprose, a few faint 
pink and silver clouds shot pink and silvery rays across the 
sea. 

The Lucy Ann had her crew and passengers all on board. The 
rowers, four of them, were at the oars ; but the craft was not, as 
was soon perceived, laden with due balance. The boat dipped 
deeply on one side. 

‘ Wad ya mind changin’ yer seat, sir T Joe Ganton asked, looking 
to Hartas Theyn, who was on the starboard side of the coble, 
which was dipping almost into the rippling water. 

Hartas rose at once, weak with emotion, unsteady with ex- 
haustion ; and before anyone knew what had happened he had 
overbalanced himself, and was struggling in the white waves at 
the side of the fishing-coble. He could not swim ; and David 
Andoe, unfortunately for himself, knew that he could not. 

David uttered no word ; he waited one second till the Squire’s 
son rose to the surface at the stern of the Lucy Ann, then he leapt 
overboard. And everyone in the fishing-coble was glad, for Hartas 
Theyn was saved. It was only the work of a minute or two to 
bring the boat round, to draw the two men on board. It was not 
till long afterward that they knew that one living man had been 
drawn out of the sea, and one man who was dead. 

Why David Andoe had died in that perilous moment was more 
than even Dr. Douglas could say ; but the doctor was Christian 
enough not to insist upon knowing — upon investigating what 
scientists would term the exact cause. What did it matter 
whether a vein in the man’s brain had burst ; whether valve in 
the heart had ceased to act — of what value to anyone could such 
merely technical information be ? He had laid down his life ; and 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


278 

only the man for whom he had done this knew how surely David 
Andoe himself would have said ‘ for a friend.* 

By the time the Lucy Ann touched the shore of Ulvstan Bight, 
it seemed as if the whole village must be there. It was nearly 
daylight now. A cool, soft breeze was upon land and sea ; the tide 
was at its height. The coble had to be rowed quite close up to the 
quay on which the struggling crowds were standing, each one 
anxious to see, to learn if there could be truth in the strange story 
that had sped from lip to lip with the rising of the sun. 

No one spoke as Barbara was lifted out ; it seemed as if no one 
had courage to ask if she were living or not. A few saw her pallid 
face as she was borne away ; it looked very rigid, very death-like. 
A murmur swayed through the crowd as of mingled awe and 
compassion. 

The next to be brought ashore was little Bdy ; and the child sat 
up in the arms of the fisherman who carried her, and smiled as she 
passed. More than one wept to see the smile, it was so wan, so 
weak. 

There was much weeping in Ulvstan Bight that morning. As 
for Ailsie, the old fishwives said one to another : ‘ She were thrown 
back fra the sea, and the sea was sure to claim her again * Still 
they shed tears for her, for the little one had been loved and loving. 

It was not until Hartas Theyn had been assisted to land that the 
real truth with regard to David Andoe became known. Hartas 
himself did not know it. He had been sitting quite close to the 
dead fisherman : he had noticed not only the silence, the pallor, but 
that strange and inexplicable change that comes over the features 
when the ‘ fever called living ’ is over for ever. These things he 
had seen, and a great dread had come down upon him— an over- 
whelming dread. Was not the tale of disaster complete before ? 

Coming in over the gray waves in the morning light, listening all 
unconsciously to the dip of the oars, watching the growing beauty 
of the dead face, not knowing surely that it was death he looked 
upon, the remembrance of that meeting on the Scaur at midnight 
came over him with force ; yet it was not a painful remembrance. 

He could feel again the touch — the warm clasp of the fisherman’s 
hand when they parted. That hand was quite close to him now, 
but for very reverence he refrained from laying upon it his own. 

And now — now he stood upon the crowded slip-way , and others 
helped to raise David Andoe, thinking that he must have fainted 
from exhaustion. 

They spoke to him as they raised him from his seat in the boat, 
but he did not answer. One, more clear-sighted than the rest, 
covered him with a piece of sail-cloth : he did not resist. 

Unfortunately for herself, poor old Susan Andoe met the small 
procession as it began to wind up the way to the Forecliff. Her 
cry rings yet in the ear of some who heard it. 

• Davy, my Davy !’ she cried passionately. * Let ma speak to 
him 1 Will ya ? He’s my oan — let ma speak to him 1* 


BARBARA'S STORY. 


279 


She would have flurg herself upon the roughly-shrouded figure 
but for those who were near to prevent her. A 1 the way up the 
cliff she followed, and cried with tremulous lips and sobbing 
breath : 

‘ Davy, my Davy 1 If ya will but speak ! Ah'll be a better 
mother to ya, my lad — eh, Ah will ! Ah ’ll be a better mother nor 
ever AhVe been before I Nobbut speak to ma 1* 


CHAPTER LXIL 
bakbaea’s stoky. 

* His was the fate to suffer grievous woe, 

And mine to mourn without forgetfulness. ’ 

Woesley’s Odyssey. 

*Dear Uncle Hugh,’ Thorhilda had written late one night in 
baste, ‘I have just seen yesterday’s newspaper. What is this 
terrible story about a ship being found floating bottom upward, 
filled with water, and some Ulvstan Bight fisher-folk still alive in 
the cabin ? Can it be true ? Please tell me all particulars very 
soon. Are they, any of them, people I know V 

There was more than this in the letter — much more. Some 
things there were that made the Canon glad, and some that made 
him sad. The mere sight of his niece’s handwriting always now 
made his heart ache. 

Over a week had elapsed between the disaster and the day when 
Canon Godfrey listened to the details as Barbara Burdas alone 
could tell them. 

Inevitably it had been a week of pain, but Barbara wondered at 
herself that the pain was not deeper. She had stood in the»church- 
yard by the open graves on that day when David Afldoe was laid 
Dy the side of his sister, when her little Ailsie and Stevie had been 
laid to rest in the grave of their own mother, and through it all 
she had shed no tear. 

Hartas Theyn, standing opposite to her, watching the white set 
face of the woman he loved, would rather have seen her weep. He 
had enough insight into her true character to know all that her 
apparent self-control meant. Some there were there who con- 
sidered her calmness to be apathy ; others wondered if it were 
possible that the terrible experience she had gone through should 
have left some cloud on her brain, some^dulness, some incapacity ; 
and iu truth these did not altogether mistake, as Canon Godfrey 
perceived.. ' 

‘ Ail that Barbara could tell she told me very calmly,’ he said, in 
writing to Miss Theyn. ‘ She told me how the storm came on 
suddenly in a few hours after they left Hild’s Haven — how the 
captain had insisted upon her and the three children being fastened 
down in the cabin. 

* “ 4iid be wanted my grandfather to stay in the cabin with us^” 


28 o 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


Barbara said. “ And I begged him to stay myself, for I knew it 
was bnt little nse he’d be on deck if a gale came on ; but he 
wouldn’t listen — no, not for a moment, and Captain Baildon had 
no time to waste just then. I could hear that preparations for the 
worst were being made. After we were made safe — safe as they 
thought, I heard strange noises on deck, as if the sea were sweep- 
ing over the schooner, and by-and-by, sometime during that first 
night, a mast fell ; I judged it to be the mainmast ; but the children 
slept on through it all, all three of them— ~Ildy on my knee, and 
Steve and Ailsie in the captain’s berth. 

‘ “ It must have been some hours afterward when the second 
mast went by the board. I heard the captain shouting to Peter 
Grainger, and I listened for some reply, but none ever came. And 
all the while the schooner was driving on, rolling, rocking, tossing. 
I judged it was quite unmanageable. And all the while I was 
hearkening for my grandfather’s voice, but I never heard it, no, 
not once after we were shut into the cabin. . , . I’ve thought since 
that perhaps he went soon on in the storm, and that was why the 
captain never come anear the cabin-door ; no, not so much as to 
tell me how the night was going, or to ask me if I wanted aught 
for the children. ’Twas not like him to keep away in that manner, 
and there was plenty of opportunities, for, as I said afore, ’twere 
more like a succession of severe squalls nor like a reg’lar gale ; and 
every now and then there was something that was almost like a 
calm, so that anybody might have brought us a word of comfort, if 
there was any to bring, or anyone to bring it. I’ve thought since 
that there might not be, especially after that time when the captain 
cried so loud to Peter. It’s strong in my mind that when the 
second mast went overboard, Peter Grainger went with it, and that 
after that the captain would be there at the helm all alone — all alone 
on the storm^wept deck of that bare hull. I could see him, so to 
speak. ... I can see him now.” 

‘ All this Barbara told me quite quietly. She seemed to be living 
through the dread and terror over again, and to have the same calm 
strength that had helped her and supported her then. 

‘ There was a pause in her story after she had seemed to see the 
captain standing before her. When she began again she seemed a 
little confused, as if not able easily to find words for all that came 
after. Hitherto she had spoken just as I have written, with an 
easy flow of words— simple English words — but evidently now and 
then echoing some phrase of some rather archaic book. Her voice 
is lower and sweeter than ever ; her sad, simple manner is most 
touching ; and naturally these new sorrows have lent a new eleva- 
tion. Lent — nay, that is not the word at all. It will not depart. 

‘ When she took up her story again, she was like one awakening 
from a dreadful sleep. 

‘ “It must have been a long time,” she said, ** a very long time 
that we were tossing there, but I’d no means of knowing how long. 
J only remember that Ildy wakened now and then ; and I gave hej* 


BARBARA'S STORK 


281 


a little milk so long as there was any in the bottle ; and when there 
was no more she fretted a bit ; but she always fell asleep again. 
The others slept strangely ; and I was glad. 

‘ “ Now and then there was a time of comparative calm. I heard 
the roar of the water and of the wind, but not near so bad as during 
the squalls ; and there was very little noise overhead. A chain 
rattled as the hull rocked up and down ; now and then some part 
of the dismantled ship gave a creak or a groan, and there was some- 
thing that I thought might be a water-cask rolling to and fro on 
deck with the lurching of the vessel ; but there was no footstep, no, 
none at all ; and there was no voice. Once I thought I’d rise to 
my feet, and knock and ask Captain Baildon if he knew where we 
were ; but somehow I’d no strength to do it. And yet, no, ^twas 
not strength I wanted, but — but courage. 

‘ “ The things I was beginning to fear were such terrible things 
that I dreaded the moment when I must find that they were more 
than fears. 

‘ “ I’ll never know — I think it never can be known — whether or 
no through all these hours the captain was at the helm or no. As 
I’ve said,' I heard no voice, no footstep ; no, not though I held my 
very breath to listen. 

‘ “ I can’t say how long that time that was almost a time of calm 
had lasted. I fancied at times that there was a ray of faint light 
in a chink overhead, but I couldn’t be sure. And then, as I 
listened, I began to l)e aware that another squall was coming on ; 
not quite so sudden as some of them had come, but I liked the 
sound of it none the better for that. 

‘ “ The wind deepened and hoarsened, and now it was like a long, 
low wail, and now it was like a wild shriek, and the hull strained 
and groaned, and it rolled and tossed, and I knew that the sea must 
be making worse than ever before. 

‘ “ Did I pi’ay ? you ask me, sir. I’d been praying at intervals all 
the while — not kneeling down much, for which I was sorry ; but 
the child was on my knee, and I dreaded to wake her for fear of 
awakening the others. I prayed that they might go on sleeping ; 
and their sleep was beautiful to me. I could not see them, but I 
could hear their soft, reg’lar breathing. And once Ailsie spoke in 
her sleep— that was a way she bad always from being a baby 

‘ “ ‘ It’s that lady, Miss Theyn,’ she said, in the voice that I knew 
to be her dream- voice. ‘ It’s Miss Theyn- ; her that gave me the 
Christmas-cards, and touched them all so gentle with her gentle 
hands. And she’s going up a hiU— such a high green hill ! and she 
can’t get up ; no, she can’t. Oh, Barbara, go an’ help her ; she’s 
slippin’ back at every step an’ hardly getting any further at all. 
An’ she does so want to get to the top ! I can see why ! I can see 
it all now. There’s a beautiful city over the hill, an’ she wants to 
go there, but she can’t get up that green hillside. Oh, why can’t 
she ? Why ? Will nobody help her ?’ ” 

‘This is just what Barbara told me, Thorda dear. Can you put 


283 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


a meaning to it ? I 'vrisli the dream had gone a little farther ; that 
Ailsie had seen the help coming ! Isn’t that childish of me ? I 
am coming with the help myself one of these summer days. 

‘“It was soon after Ailsie had done talking in her dream,” 
Barbara went on, “ that the schooner began to heave and toss more 
fearfully than ever before. It seemed to be plunging through the 
waves as a wild beast might plunge through a forest. We were 
driven on and on, and now one side of the cabin was uppermost and 
now the other, and the roar of wind and wave was deafening by 
this time. 

‘ “ It was just then that a strange kind of terror came over me. 
It was not — I do think it was not the terror of death, for I had 
given up my soul, with all its sins and all its shortcomings, just as 
it was, into the hands of God. And as for the little ones — well, I 
prayed for them too, and I’d no fear. 

‘ “ From time to time I’d been saying a verse of that hymn. 
Just as I am, without one plea, and it had been as comforting as 
Bible words themselves, for of course, they are Bible words just 
put into verse ; that’s why they comfort one so. 

‘ “ There was one verse especially that seemed to come of itself ; 
over and over it rang in my ears when I wasn’t thinging of saying 
it. Is was this : 

• “ * Just as I am, and waiting not 

To cleanse my soul of one dark blot, 

To Thee, 'Whose blood can cleanse each spot, 

0 Lamb of God, I come.’ 

‘ “I’d just been saying that, or no, I’d better say listening to it, 
when — when. . . , Oh, Mr. Godfrey, how will I ever speak of that 
moment? I’ve never spoke of it yet, never to no one. ... But I 
want to speak of it. It will be better if I can. . . . Then, maybe. 
I’ll not suffer so. For I do suffer. All night long th^t moment is 
before me. I live through it again with such terrible vividness that 
it has even seemed to me that I might die of the vision of things I 
lived through in reality. 

‘“How will I tell you of what happened? ... As I said, the 
dismasted hull of the schooner had been plunging onward, driven 
hither and thither for some time. . . . And a kind of terror had 
thrilled through me once, just once. Then that verse came, and I 
was growing quieter, when all at once I knew that the schooner was 
sinking. 

‘“I felt it going down sideways. There was change in the 
sounds all about, not a lull in the sounds’ intensity, but a dread 
and awful change. 

‘ “ I wakened the children, hardly knowing what I was doing, but 
somehow I didn’t wish them to be drowned— to die — in their sleep. 
Heaven only knows how I repented of that deed afterwards. It 
would have been so easy for them, so painless. As it was, their 
Buffering was very great, and every pang I had to witiiess smote 
Uk© a sii^ 


BARBARA StOR K 


^83 

* “ I was telling you of the moment when the ship sank. She 
went over on her side, slowly. The water mshed into the cabin. 
... I tried to calm the children. My little Stephen was terribly 
alarmed ; and I had to give more attention to him. 

‘ “ There was a table in the cabin ; and, unlike most cabin tables, 
it was not a fixture. Seeing that it floated, I placed the children 
on it, and tried to keep it in one comer, but I could not. The hull 
was swaying up and down on its side ; and the cabin was half filled 
with water. 

‘ “ Ailsie was very white, but she was very still. Seeing that the 
water was up to my waist, she kissed me, and said, ‘ You’ll take 
cold. Barbie, do come up here on the table.’ And to comfort her I 
did lean over, holding on by the beam just above. Fortunately 
there was a sort of iron holdfast driven into the beam, and I took 
off mv apron and twined it round, so that the children might have 
something to cling to. But this was not for long. I cannot say 
how long. I had got Stevie quiet again. I told him of Christ 
walking on the water, and said that I believed He wasn’t very far 
away from us. Then he put his arm round my neck, and twined 
his hands in my hair, which had all fallen loose in the tossing to 
and fro. After a little while Ailsie kissed me again, and laid her 
head on my other shoulder ; and her hands got tangled in my hair 
as well. Ildy was still asleep. She slept strangely all through the 
worst of everything. For some time, it might be an hour, it might 
be more, I stood there by the table. The water rose and fell with 
the rising and falling of the hull ; it was very cold, and chilled us 
to the marrow ; but we seemed to get used to that. 

* “ Once or twice Stevie slept awhile ; and once or twice I sang, 
just little snatches of hymns the children liked. It seemed to 
quiet them when they grew frightened. But they were strangely 
little frighted : they didn’t know that all was overed ; and I could 
not tell them. 

‘ “ No, I don’t know how long it was before, at last, the hull 
turned completely bottom upward. It gave a lurch, the water rose 
all at once, it rose to my very throat, for a minute or two. I held 
Ildy up above it with one band, and Ailsie with the other. Stevie 
was still holding by my hair, and that kept him up. 

“‘I knew now that the vessel was quite upside down, and that 
it was floating on over the sea, tossed to and fro in the storm. And 
I also knew that we four were the only living beings on the hull. 
No man on the deck could have outlived the capsizing of the 
schooner. It was very strange ; I’d no wish to live ; and yet it 
didn’t seem right to die till I was forced. Besides, I knew that I 
must outlive the last of the children. That was nearly all I praj^ed 
for. 

‘ “ ’Twas a desperate time and long. . . . O Lord, how long ! 
They saw now it was only a day and a night from the upturning of 
the schooner ; but then I can’t think they know. I knew f 
Standing there with the cold sea- water up to my throat, and thi'eo 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


284 

children clinging to my hair, / knew. . . . O Grod, I’ll know always! 
I'll feel those hands in my hair till I die I I can tell you no more, 
sir ; my strength fails when I think of it. 

‘ “ I don’t rightly remember when I knew that Stevie was dead. 
He died first, which you wouldn’t have thought, him being so 
much stronger than Ailsie. But he died first. Yet his hands 
never left my hair. He was clinging to that when — when they 
found us. And little Ailsie’s hands were twining close to his, so 
they said. I had known that she was dead. . • . Oh yes, I had 
known that for days. 

‘ “ And I remember so well the last word she said. The water 
was swaying and tossing about the dark cabin rather wildly just 
then ; and she was swayed and tossed with it, and the little one 
that was dead was tossing too. I think that pained me even more 
than the other. And I knew by Ailsie’s voice that she was fretting 
near the end. 

‘ “ ‘ Can ya kiss me, Barbie she begged. ‘ Can ya kiss me just 
once ?’ 

‘ “ So I tried to turn my head, and I felt a little cold wet hand 
pressing my cold face. . . . And somehow the kiss was given. Then 
the little one drifted further from me, keeping one hand in my 
hair always. And the last I heard was a word of prayer. 

‘ ‘ Lift me out of the water, good Jesus ; lift me away, for Fm 
tired — despert tired. Lift me away out o’ this dark water.* 

‘ “ I did not know when she went. . . • For many hours I knew 
nothing. 

‘ ‘‘ You know the rest. Canon Godfrey, how we were saved — the 
child and me. It is a miracle — more and more as I am able to 
think, I see that the saving of us two was a miraculous thing. 
Who took care of the little one, and kept the life in her, when life 
was all but gone from myself ? 

‘ “ Do you know I have a strong and strange feeling that her 
being saved was for some strong and strange design. , . . Will you 
think of that, sir — will you remember it ? Will you write it 
down that I have said that I believe that Ilda, the child of Anna 
Tyas, was strangely saved from a strange death that her life might 
be of some especial use ; perhaps lived to some especial purpose ? 
I cannot see, not yet; but I think that I shall see.” ’ 

‘ And God grant that you may,’ replied the Rector of Yarburgh, 
rising from his seat in Barbara’s cottage. It was hers only now. 
Presently by way of parting words, he said : ‘You have asked me 
to note the child’s life. ... I shall not be here to note it. . . . But 
I will leave the words that you have said in writing for those who 
come after me.’ 

‘ You will not he here V Barbara asked, with lips whiter than they 
had been before. 

‘ No,’ the Canon replied calmly ; but seeing the girl’s distress, he 
added a word of comfort. ‘ I shall not be here,’ he said, ‘ but I 
trust that I shall be with those who thank God because they are at 


^AND NO W THE DA Y IS NEARL Y DONE! 285 

mt. . . . Yes, at rest I . . , You, yourself, must know what it is to 
uo weary ; to crave for rest when weariness is a burden too heavy 
to be borne. , . . Think so of me, when you think at all, as of one 
only too glad to reach the haven where he has longed to be. • . . 
But I am anticipating/ he said, with a sweet sudden smile as he 
turned away, ‘ The end is not yet/ 


CHAPTER LXIII. 

^AND NOW THE DAY IS NEARLY DONE/ 

* When the unfit 

Contrarious moods of men recoil away, 

And isolate pure spirits, and permit 
A place to stand and love in for a day, 

With darkness and the death -hour rounding it.* 

E. B. Browning : Sonnets from the Portuguese, 

* A DULL little place/ say some visitors from London, promenading 
slowly up and down the quay at Ulvstan Bight. Once more it is 
summer ; once more the skies make a deep blue background, 
against which the white wings of the sea-gulls may flit and circle ; 
once more the fishing-fleet lies off the land on still evenings, 
swaying slowly too and fro in the sunny yellow mist. On the 
moor, far up above the Bight, the heather is bursting into bloom ; 
the foxgloves rise above the green bracken ; by the stony waysides 
the little blue harebell stirs and quivers to the light evening breeze. 
Late as it is a lark is singing overhead, and by-and-by a robin 
perched on a stunted hawthorn-bush chirps out a vesper song of 
his own. 

‘ “A dull little place !” they say/ Canon Godfrey repeated half 
audibly, and with a smile not free from pity on his face. 

He was so glad to be ‘ dull ’ — in other words, to have a time of 
perfect quiet, made more perfect by the exceeding beauty of the 
place and of the hour. 

How long he had been up there on the moorland height, drinking 
in the fresh, free air, the welcome stillness, feeling his very soul 
within him soothed and healed as he stood or walked, and listened 
and gazed, he hardly knew. 

‘ One such hour is worth days of troubled living/ he said to him- 
self. ‘ It is good to be here/ 

But his enjoyment of solitude was almost at an end. Carriage- 
wheels were heard grinding slowly up the stony hill, and inevitably 
a momentary sense of annoyance came upon him. But this de- 
parted as suddenly as it came. 

’When Mrs. Meredith stopped her carriage to speak to him, he 
was able to lift a quite unclouded face. Yet, as she saw, it was a 
very weary face ; almost she felt a shock as she looked into it. 
Only the kind blue eyes were unchanged. 

She had something to tell to Canon Godfrey. She had meant to 


2Z6 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


announce it, but being softened by the sight of him, her mood wsM 
much modified. 

‘ Will you drive with me a little way ?’ she asked. ‘ All the way, 
if you can. Won’t the first grouse of the year tempt you ?’ 

‘ The first grouse !’ Hugh Godfrey repeated, in a quiet and medi- 
tative way. ‘ How cruel of you to mention it ! You know that 
Milicent is waiting for me ; and though not exactly a henpecked 
husband ’ 

‘ Oh, hush ! Won’t I tell your wife !’ 

‘ Very well ; only come and tell her soon. Will you come to 
luncheon to-morrow ? I am afraid I can’t promise grouse — not yet 
awhile.’ 

Mrs. Meredith hesitated a moment ; and Canon Godfrey could 
hardly help watching her, wondering in much perplexity what 
might be the meaning of this great and sudden change of attitude. 
From that winter’s day with its dread disaster till now, she had 
never relaxed from her first severity of mood and manner. Cer*’ 
tainly there must be some reason for the change. 

* No, I won’t come to-morrow,’ Mrs. Meredith replied. She was 
one of those people who can be most graciously ungracious without 
giving offence. ‘ Not to-morrow,’ she repeated. ‘ I have something 
to tell you. I will tell you now ; and then I will accept the first 
invitation that comes from the Rectory afterward. . . . Not that I 
have anything to fear — of course not !’ she added, with a short 
little laugh of superiority. ‘ It is quite the other way. You should 
be glad of my news ; for eveTy reason you should be glad. . . . 
Percival is going to be married.’ 

The Canon looked into Mrs. Meredith’s face with a quick, glad, 
half -surprised look on his own. Then he held out his hand, which 
was taken warmly. 

‘ You are congratulating me without knowing the lady I’ she ex- 
claimed. 

‘ Don’t I know her ? Am I mistaken ? surely not ! It is 
Gertrude ?’ 

‘ Now that is good of you,’ Mrs. Meredith replied. * And it is so 
like you, to divine it all— to spare me the moment ; yes, it is quite 
characteristic. And now tell me honestly what you think — as if 
you were my brother.’ 

‘Well, then, honestly, I am wondering which of them is the 
most to be congratulated. Of course, one knows what the world 
will say — this tiresome, worrying little world all about us. It will 
be said everywhere that Gertrude is the fortunate person — and truly 
she is fortunate, from a certain point of view — which she will be 
able to appreciate ; most fortunate. But there is a good deal to be 
said on the other side. I can offer very sincere congratulations to 
Percival. Miss Douglas is not only a beautiful w^oman : I consider 
her to have an absolutely perfect temper — no light matter in mar- 
ried life. . . , Yes, certainly I can congratulate him ; I congratulate 
you now?— on the spot. I can. hardly imagine any station in life 


^ AND NO W THE DA Y IS NEARL Y DONE? 287 


that would not be graced by the presence of the woman your son 
has chosen to be his lifelong companion. ... I can say no more.' 

Mis. Meredith was not often emotional ; but she could not reply 
easily just now. She shook hands once more, and more warmly, 
with the Canon, and drove off, saying : 

‘ I shall expect that invitation to luncheon ; add a grace to it by 
sending it soon. . . . Life has not been the same since I was 
banished from the Rectory.* 

‘ Banished ? You !’ the Canon exclaimed, his hat in bis hand as 
the carriage drove away. 

And long afterwards Mrs. Meredith smiled as she leaned back in 
her carriage, recalling the kind blue eyes, the winning smile, the 
charm, the fascination that was about all that Canon Godfrey said 
or did. 

‘ Forgive !* she exclaimed to herself ; * one would forgive him 
anything — everything I* 

Then, a little later, when the distance was wider, the upland 
Mils more deeply purple, the summer evening breeze more chill 
and sad, she added yet another word. 

‘ Forgive — forgive him ! Good God ! I say it in all reverence, 
I say, good God, forgive us, who do not know him — who cannot 
see him ! It is only the reflection of his soul that one sees — only 
a most marred and hindered, and darkened, yet most beautiful 
vision. 

‘ I never see that man, I never hear the sound of his voice, but 
I wish to be a better woman — a mpre unselfish woman, and more 
self-denying. . . . And there is more than that. . . . What is it ? 
What is the atmosphere that is all about him, that impresses one 
so ? . . . Sure one can feel what it is — one must feel — it is the at- 
mosphere of prayer ! 

‘ One takes knowledge of him, that he ha$ been with Jesus? 

* « « « • 

Quite late that summer night a shepherd was returning from the 
town of Yarburgh to a moorland farm. It was a very bright night. 
The moon was nearly at the full, and shone out clear and cloudless 
from a heaven of deep dark blue. The stars were numerous and 
brilliant as the stars on a deep and frosty night in midwinter. 

All the way over the narrow, stony moorland road the man went 
whistling, not from cowardice, but for very pleasure. The night 
was so still, so bright, so warm, and so indisputably beautiful. 

No, he had no fear, no superstition ; and when he heard suddenly 
from under the stunted haw thorn- tree by the moorland wall a cry, 
or rather a quiet and gentle appeal for help, he turned aside with- 
out dread. He stooped over the figure lying there ; then, with a 
sudden shock as of pain, Reuben Lodge drew himself up hurriedly. 

‘ It’s never you, sir ? — i^s never Canon Godfrey P 

‘ I’m afraid it is, Reuben. . . . Can you help me ? Can you get 
other help ? . . . There is a dog-cart at the Leas — isn’t there ? But 


288 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


there is no need for great haste, much less for alarm. , , . It isn’t a 
cold night — and it’s not in the least damp.* 

No ; there was no need for haste. A couple of hours later the 
Canon was in his own study, lying on the sofa, and Dr. Douglas 
was there, speaking rough-and-ready truth as usual. 

‘ I’ve seen it coming ; months ago I told you what that under- 
action of the heart would mean if you didn’t take care. And what 
care have you taken T 

The doctor’s tone was a little harsh, a little brusque ; but it may 
be that Canon Godfrey defined the source of the brusqueness. His 
reply was in marked contrast. 

‘ Don’t scold me, Douglas,’ he begged gently, putting out a be- 
seeching hand, which the doctor would not see. 

Instead, he walked off to the window and looked out, saying, by- 
And-by, in a strange and unusual voice : 

‘ Scold you ! It’s too late ! . . . Would to God it wasn’t !' 

‘ You mean that I shall not recover ? . . . Well, I had not ex- 
pected it, and may I be forgiven for saying I had not desired it.’ 

‘ No, that I believe — that I have seen long ago ; but without 
being able for one moment to understand. . . . Why, what would 
you have ? What is there in life worth having that you haven’t 
got ?* 

The Canon smiled ; then presently he said . 

‘ Don’t think me ungrateful, or even unperceptive. I have had 
much that many have envied me. I had comparative success early 
in life, and ever since I have tasted the fruit of that success. But 
one doesn’t wear one’s heart on one’s sleeve — not if one is wise — 
still less does one publish one’s whole affairs to the world. I have 
not done so. And now at this late hour I may say that I have 
hidden cares and anxieties, caused by no fault of my own, but 
grave enough to have killed many men.' 

‘ Doubtless — since they have killed you,' the doctor interposed 
with even more than his usual abruptness. 

* Ah, well !’ the Canon returned ; ‘ it is evident that you are in 
no mood to hear my confidences to-night. You must give me 
another opportunity when you are in a better frame of mind. . , , 
But one word more ; shall I send for Thorhilda ?’ 

‘ By all means. Shall I write for you ?’ 

‘ Thank you, yes ; but don’t say a word to alarm her. She will 
come without that' 


CHAPTER LXiy. 

'in to-day already walks to-morrow.* 

* The spirit of man is an instrument which cannot give out its deeptel, 
finest tones, except under the immediate hand of the Divine Harmonist.’ 

— Professor Shairf. 

The Canon had been disappointed. It was not his niece’s step 
that he had heard in the hall, but that of Lady Diana Haddingley, a 


*IN TO-DAV ALREADY WALKS TO-MORROW: 289 

person who was almost a stranger to him, and therefore in his 
present state of mind and body a person to be almost dreaded. 
Fortunately, however, ten minutes of Lady Di’s society had ban- 
ished all the dread. 

She was not now a young woman, far from it ; and her latest 
peculiar fancy was to dress so that she might be mistaken for a 
widow. Almost inevitably, since she had dressed to the character, 
she had come to believe in a sort of widowhood, and not only to 
believe in it, but to act and speak out of her belief. Yet there was 
no deliberate hypocrisy in her histrionic display. She knew that 
others knew how it all was, and remained content to know. Still 
she clung to the simulated ^ weeds ’ — the white cap, the black 
bonnet, the long veil that was neither crape nor gauze. Where, 
her friends asked, did she get such ambiguously lovely materials ? 

All her study, her research, was thrown away upon Canon God- 
frey He did not even remember whether she had ever been mar- 
ried or no. 

Expecting, with a beating heart, that his niece might have 
arrived an hour or two before her time, and so have missed her 
aunt, who had gone to the station to meet her, he sank back into 
his chair with a new paleness on bis face when the stranger was 
ushered into the room. 

But let it be said again, ten minutes of the stranger’s presence 
insured her welcome for as many months, if the Canon should live 
so long. For once there was a little sigh, remembering that ho 
might not count so many days. 

Lady Diana Haddingley was one of those rare sympathetic women 
who can lend themselves — and this successfully— to any hour, any 
mood, any circumstance, and almost any person. She had not been 
a quarter of an hour in the drawing-room at Yarburgh Eectory 
before she was in touch with all that had happened there during the 
past two years. And it may be that in one particular her insight 
went even further than that of Canon Godfrey himself. 

A light seemed to flash across her mind suddenly when the name 
of Damian Aldenmede was mentioned. She remembered a letter 
that she herself had written only a few months before, just about 
the time fixed for Miss Theyn’s marriage ; and she also remembered 
Mrs. Godfrey’s reply — a letter disclosing much more than the 
Canon’s wife had m^ant to disclose. In fact, it had been so worded 
as to convey meanings of which Mrs. Godfrey herself was ignorant. 
Yet, curiously enough, these hidden meanings held the very core of 
the truth of all that had happened at the Rectory. 

‘Ah ! yes. I remember Mr. Aldenmede was here ; he was here 
ever so long. I told your wife all the gossip I had heard from Sarah 
Channing. I don’t believe in it much, though. Sarah always gets 
hold of the wrong end of a story. ... I dare say you know about it 
all. There was a fish- wife as heroine— the mother of half a dozen 
little fisher-folk ’ 

‘ Oh, hush I pray say no more I’ the Canon begged, not too cour- 


290 


IN EXCHANGE FOE A SOUL. 


teously. ‘ I will tell you after about the things that must have given 
rise to such terrible gossip as that. It is worse than merely untrue. 
But, pardon me for asking it, can you tell me something of Mr. 
Aldenmede — anything that may be told openly and honourably ? 
We saw so much of him, we know so little of him. But let me say 
that all we did know added to our admiration.’ 

‘ That was inevitable. But do you mean to say that you never 
heard of his great trouble — the thing that drove him from his 
country and his home, drove him to wander over the earth for 
years 

‘No, we knew nothing ; we know nothing yet. But don’t betray 
any secret to gratify curiosity of mine.’ 

‘ Secret ! It was known all over Gloucestershire.* 

‘ Is that his county ?’ 

Lady Di smiled. 

‘You spoke of your curiosity just now,* she said. *It seems 
you have not had enough to induce you to look into a certain 
book to be found in most houses. Don’t you know that your 
artist-friend is the nephew of old Sir Ralph Aldenmede of King’s 
Alden ?’ 

‘No. ... I did not know. , , . But tell me something more in- 
interesting than that.’ 

‘ Interesting ! You might call for sensation and not be disap- 
pointed in the present instance.’ 

‘ You are dreadfully trying, Lady Diana.’ 

‘ Because I won’t come to the point ? . . . Well, I won’t be try- 
ing any more. I will give you the history in the fewest words 
possible. 

‘ First of all, then, to go back about fifteen years — to the time 
when Damian Aldenmede was a youth of one-and-twent/ ; a very 
boyish youth for his years, but clever enough, and high-minded 
enough ; indeed, “ Don Quixote ” was the name we gave to him in 
those days. I needly hardly say that he was popular — singularly 
popular for a man who was not likely ever to be very rich ; for Sir 
Ralph had two sons living then, Charles and Alfred ; and Damian’s 
mother, a widow of five-and-fifty, though well-to-do, was not 
counted a wealthy woman. I should say a couple of thousands a 
year was the extent of her income, and Damian’s sole prospect was 
the reversion of that. But, as we always said, a couple of hundreds 
would have been enough for him ; indeed, I do not suppose that he 
is spending much more than that upon himself even now. Still, his 
inappetence for spending money on himself did not injure his popu- 
larity — quite the reverse. He made friends everywhere, his especial 
friend being a certain Julian Haverfield, the son of a Lincoln- 
shire clergyman. Mr. Haverfield spent most of his vacations at 
Massingham, Mrs. Aldenmede’s little place in Gloucestershire, and 
we all knew him, and liked him. He was very fascinating. 

‘ Now comes the beginning of the tragedy. Damian Aldenmede 
fell in love — deeply, passionately in love — with a governess^ the 


< IN TO‘DA Y AIRE AD Y WALKS ^TO-MORRO WJ 291 

orphan daughter of a provincial lawyer, and one of the most beauti- 
ful girls I have ever seen in my life. Her features were small, 
refined, and most exquisitely cut ; to look at her profile was like 
looking at a cameo ; and her colouring was simply the cream and 
carnation of Millais’ baby-girls. We were all in love with her ; 
and she knew it, expected it, for the girl had no more brain than a 
butterfly. How such a man as Damian Aldenmede could ever have 
cared for her for three consecutive days puzzled everybody who 
could not see that a man who is also an artist is open to temptation 
on a side not vulnerable in ordinary men. It was the artist that 
_ was attracted first ; the man was subjugated later. There must, of 
course, have been something more than mere beauty in Miss Florence 
Underhay — some gentleness, some womanliness, some indefinable 
fascination, or Damian Aldenmede had never contrived to make 
wreck of his life in the complete way he contrived to do. 

‘ The tragedy might never have been so complete if his mother 
had not been as proud as she was shallow. When she came to know 
that Damain was engaged — actually engaged to the governess of her 
late grocer (now retired, and living in a beautiful villa at Clifton) 
her anger knew no bounds. 

* There must have been some terrible scenes, for Damian’s love and 
regard for his mother had always been noticeable. However, in the 
end, she disinherited him as far as she had power to do. She had 
a new will made, and left the greater part of her possessions to a 
niece, the daughter of a favourite sister. * ^ 

‘ At last comes the most dramatic part of the story. Miss Florence 
Underhay came to know of the new will, and from that day she 
changed to the man who was to have been her husband, who had 
lavished the love of a strong heart and brain upon her to an extent 
she had only found wearisome. 

‘ The end came quickly. One fine morning Damian received a 
double letter, two sheets in two different hand. writings in one enve- 
lope. The first he read was from his friend Julian Haverfield, a 
man he had loved as his own soul. The letter announced the 
approaching marriage of Mr. Haverfield and Miss Florence 
Underhay. 

‘The second letter was from Miss Underhay herself. It was 
almost brutally candid. 

‘ She had not deceived Mr. Aldenmede, she said. She had loved 
him, she had meant to marry him ; but learning what would be the 
pecuniary result of such a marriage, she had not hesitated in her 
decision to break off the engagement at once. Almost at the same 
moment, Mr. Haverfield, to whom she had spoken of her resolution, 
had made her an offer. Being a richer man than Damian Alden- 
mede had ever hoped to be, she had, of course, accepted him. She 
added that she had had enough of poverty, of all that was meant by 
narrow means. 

‘In conclusion, she said, “I ask you to forgive me, and to forget 
me. I am persuaded that there will come a day when you will be 

19—2 


29 ^ tN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 

glad that I have acted thus. I was no fit wife for you. For a long 
time past it has been a strain to me to live up to your expectations. 
You required too much.” 

‘ Imagine the blow to a man like Aldenmede I His mother told 
me that she believed the broken friendship was at least as much as 
the broken love. He has never been himself since — not the self he 
was before. 

‘ As a matter of course, Mrs. Aldenmede again changed her inten- 
tions as to the disposal of her property, much to the dismay of her 
niece, Clara Young, who was already beginning to be looked upon 
as an heiress, and had refused more than one eligible offer because 
she considered that such a fortune as the one she was expecting 
ought at least to secure for her a title. Damian has been very good 
to her since his mother’s death, and very helpful to her husband ; 
indeed, he is good to everybody.’ 

So Lady Di ended her story. She had told it in a very bald and 
crude fashion, as she knew, and the Canon knew that too, but all 
the same his heart ached as he listened. 

Now he knew why the artist had worn always that sad face ; why 
he had, in a certain sense, striven to hide his real position from 
such as did not know it. Doubtless, the man was hoping to win 
some love for himself alone, untainted by appreciation of aught that 
he might possess. 

Had this also been a mistake ? Had it even led to a new 
undoing ? 

There was silence in fhe room for awhile. In the heart of each 
of the two people there the same idea was pressing, and this with 
all the force of prophecy. 

‘ They must meet again T the Canon said to himself ; and then in 
the quiet that followed he felt the spirit within him grow calm and 
sure. 

‘ It will be well, it will all be well,’ so it seemed that some voice 
was saying. And just then came the sound of carriage-wheels, the 
opening and shutting of doors, the words of welcome uttered by his 
wife. For a moment he felt overcome, but he strove and was vic- 
torious. A minute later Thorda was kneeling by his sofa, and her 
eyes were wet, her voice broken by emotion. 

‘ Say you forgive me. Uncle Hugh — say that once again 1’ she cried. 
And, indeed, the agony of her mind was very great. 

Till her sorrow had come she had never known how she had loved 
this man who lay there dying, nor had she till then dreamt of what 
his love for hc^r had been. The past few months had shown her all 
with a most vigorously bitter showing. 

No day or hour had passed but she had missed his care, his tran- 
quil, mindful affection. That other love, stifled half -successfully in 
her heart, had caused her less constant misery than this. 

To be there in the old room, to kneel beside him, to hold 
his hand, to look into his face, was an emotion that for the time 
bsorbed all others. She did not know when Lady Diana and her 


THE UNEXPECTED. 29J 

aunt went out ; she only knew that at last she and her uncle were 
alone. 

It was an hour she had longed for, waited for, dreamt of un- 
ceasingly. There had been no misunderstanding between them ; but 
since that sad crisis in her life there had not been opportunity for 
the perfect understanding, the oneness of mind and heart she so 
yearned for. Now it might be — that perfect unity ; if only for 
a little while. She did not yet dream how short the interval 
was to be. 

It is better not to know, but it is well to remember all that know- 
ledge might mean. The next word we utter might be gentler and 
tenderer if we knew it would be spoken to one over whom the 
wings of Azrael were already silently spreading ; silent with the 
silence of the land beyond. 


CHAPTER- LXV. 

THE UNEXPECTED. 

• Still onward winds the dreary way ; 

I with it, for I long to prove 
No lapse of moons can conquer love, 

Whatever fickle tongues may say.’ 

In Memoriam^ 

Those were glorious autumn days. Now and then, when Canon 
Godfrey was well enough, he and his niece walked out over the 
moor beyond the Rectory, sauntering up the stony hillside pathways 
with leagues upon leagues of crimson heather on either side. The 
warm yellow sunlight heightened the tone of things near and far, 
the blue sea stretched quietly from point to point. White-winged 
gulls sailed lazily overhead on the one hand ; startled grouse whirred 
tremulously on the other. No other sounds disturbed the enchant- 
ing stillness. 

On one of these days — it was early in September — the Canon was 
in a brighter mood than usual. He seemed stronger, able to walk 
better and faster. 

‘ Ah, what it is to feel strong again, young again V he said, turn- 
ing aside so that he might sit down to rest awhile on the top of 
Barugh Houe, an ancient British cairn at the top of Yarburgh Moor. 
It was a favourite spot. There was the sea he had always loved so 
passionately in the distance ; the moors he had loved with a love 
almost equally strong were all about him, glowing in their richest 
beauty, the crown of the year lying upon each moorland brow. And 
the free fresh air was as wine to the man whose wine of youth and 
strength had been drained prematurely to the lees. To-day he 
rejoiced again with a new rejoicing. 

‘ It is almost worth while to have felt faint and weak and worth- 
less, to know the joy of renewed strength,^ he went on. ‘ Life would 
be worth living if only to have a day now and then like this. I can 


294 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


hardly believe now that once, and not so long ago, life was lived 
always on such terms as these ! That I slept at night a painless and 
refreshing sleep, that I awoke always as a child awakes, glad of the 
new day ; my brain busy with new thought ; my heart warm with 
new and expectant emotion. Yes. ... I think I was a happy man, 
very happy. . . . There were hidden troubles ; but I bore them — 
I think I may say that, by the grace of G-od, I bore them well ; hut 
I was not strong enough to go on hearing them; and I fear now that it 
was because I had not sufficient spiritual strength. We know nothing 
of ourselves, not yet. We know nothing of the way the soul’s 
strength acts upon the strength of the body. The strong soul is at 
peace. Peace means opportunity for growth, development for all 
that is hindered by tumult, by anger, by distress. Give the soul an 
atmosphere of calm, and all will be web. , . And I am calm to-day, 
very calm. . . . But how egotistic I an* growing I Thorda dear, 
how is it with you ?’ 

Miss Theyn was sitting among the crimson heather at her uncle’s 
feet ; a woman older by ten years than she had seemed ten months 
ago. It was a topic of conversation everywhere that her good looks 
were gone ; and for once gossip was not mistaken. 

She was quite aware of her loss — what true woman would not 
have been ? She knew that she was thin and pale ; that her eyes 
had lost both colour and brightness ; in a word, that she was faded 
and passes to an extent her years by no means excused. Yet the 
change did not distress her. She had passed beyond the possibility 
of distresses of that kind. 

‘ How is it with me ?’ she repeated. * Well, I could almost echo 
your own words. I, too, have peace. Not perfect peace — it is not 
always with me. There are breaks in it at times 

‘ “ When I think of what I am, and what I might have been.” * 

* But as I told you the other day, Thorda dear, I am very sure it 
is not a wise thing to live too much in an unhappy or mistaken 
past.’ 

‘ I agree with you completely. “ Not too much but, on the 
other hand, if one could forget it altogether, would it be wise 
to do so ? Is there not a sort of safety in remembering past 
falls ?’ 

‘ Yes ; if one doesn’t remember them to the point of depression 
in the present. I have seen a human being so borne down by the 
sense of past sin as to have neither hope nor energy left for even 
making an effort to rise again. It is not so with you, I know. I 
would only warn you, because I know your tendency to brood over 
the past. . . Let it go, dear. It is possible 

^ “ To be as if you had not been till now ; 

And now w'ere simply what you choose to he.’ 

There was silence while Miss Theyn drank in the beauty, the 
strength, of this most strengthening thought. 


THE UNEXPECTED. 


295 

* Not what one chooses to be, Uncle Hugh,^ she said pre- 
sently. ‘ The past must always have its influence on the present.’ 

‘ And the present on the future. That is the immense value of 
the present hour ; it must in a measure dominate the hours to be. 
Yet there is truth in the poet’s word. One strong effort may save 
a soul on the brink of destruction. Think of Zacchasus, of the 
splendid picture painted of him by St. Luke. He had been drawn 
by mere rumour to wish to see Jesus. He knew himself to be a 
sinner, an ungodly man, rapacious, cruel ; yet the germ of good, 
the ideal, was in him as it is in most men. He wished to see Jesus, 
he saw Him, and more than that, was seen of Him ; requested to 
come down from the tree into which he had climbed ; and then 
(what mu8t his astonishment have been ?) the Master said, “ I wish 
to come to your house to abide there.” 

* “ And he made haste, and came down, and received him joyfully.” 

Joyfully, ah, yes indeed, think of his joy ! 

‘ There is often something touching, often something noble, even 
in the hated thing we call condescension. A man of high rank may 
condescend to one of lower rank, even the lowest, and gain an 
added grace in the act. Suspicion may be there on the one side 
and on the other ; but if there be nothing to be suspected, the 
presence of suspicion can do no real or permanent harm. 

‘ But the greatest condescension of all — the truest, the most 
noble, the most touching — is when one who has worn the white 
flower of a blameless life condescends to one whose lilies of purity 
were dragged in the dust long ago. That is the one condescension 
worthy of note. 

‘ A rich man speaking to a poor man can have no human or 
spiritual aversion to make his speaking an act of self-sacrifice. A 
lady with an ancient and honourable title cannot really feel that the 
pure and high-minded woman in whose society she finds herself is 
really her inferior because of the absence of the outward distinctive 
sign of social rank. But it is different when you come to deal with 
spiritual rank. 

‘ * ** Know that there is in man a quite indestructible reverence for whatso- 
ever holds of heaven, or even plausibly counterfeits such holding. Show the 
dullest clodpole, show the haughtiest featherhead, that a soul higher than 
himself is actually here ; were his knees stiffened into brass, he must down 
and worship.” 

* Yes ; he must down and worship. On his knees he must con- 
trast the purity, the nobility, the peace, the happiness of this man’s 
life with his own. Then follows the thought, the aspiration, 
“ Can I become what this man is ? Can I rise to his pure height ? 

Can I find enjoyment in the things he enjoys ? Can my life be as 
his life ?” So the questions come. Next, suddenly and strongly, 
comes the resolve. In the case of Zacchaeus there was no hesitation. 
Too often hesitation is fatal, “ Behold, Lord 1” he said instantly, 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


296 

“ the half of my goods I give to the poor ; and if I have taken any- 
thing from any man by false accusation, I restore fourfold.” 

‘ And all this because of the sight of a pure spiritual face, the 
sound of a gentle beseeching voice. 

‘ Conversion this is called, and rightly ; but the word has been so 
misused as to be no longer rightly useful. The repentance in the 
heart and soul of Zacchasus must have been more or less rapid. Yet 
was it perfectly complete, entirely effectual. The Master Himself 
declared at once that, because of this sudden penitence, salvation 
had that day come to the house of the rich publican. Doubtless, 
of course, that hour was but the beginning of the new life— new 
and beautiful, full of peace, of happiness, yet neither untried nor 
unshaded. So it is with you, Thorda dear. Your peace — the peace 
you have won out of tribulation — is not unbroken, you say. How 
should it be in this world ? Have you even the wish for unbroken 
peace ? Surely that would mean stagnation.’ 

Again there was silence for a time— not an unhappy silence on 
either side. The Canon had recognised the change that had passed 
upon his niece’s character ; how the channels of her soul seemed 
deeper and wider for the tide of sorrow and remorse that had 
poured through them, washing away even the very stains of the sel- 
fishness that had so marred her life before. The change showed in 
every act of her life — nav, in her every speech, and dress, and 
attitude. If less brightly oeautiful than of old, she was even more 
graceful and tender, and her gentle consideration for others never 
failed her. 

The Canon could not help the thought that came. ‘ Ah, if 
could see her now !’ And with the thought came the longing, ‘ Let 
me see them before I die ; let me hear them speak to each other I 
I shall know ; I shall understand !’ 

It was not strange that Miss Theyn’s thought should be of the 
same person. All about them were things to recall the few brief 
bright months during which she had known Damian Aldenmede. 
The blue far-off sea seemed to whisper of him ; the purple heather 
rustling in the breeze had a wistfulness in its tone ; and as the sun 
sank to the moor the voices all about seemed to grow sadder, to 
deepen the sense of her heart’s real loneliness. 

Long ago there had been an hour of awakening — an hour during 
which Miss Theyn had been wholly true to herself. 

* It was love for him^ though I knew it not ; it was love for 
Damian Aldenmede that led me to do a deed that must for ever 
have destroyed the regard he had for me. . . Eegard ? Was it not 
more than that I saw in his face on that day when he said “ Good- 
bye ” in the garden at Yar burgh ? I deceived myself then, or tried 
to do so ; bu why try self-deception now ? 

* He loved me, he saw that I loved him ; and he knew that I 
trampled on my love because of his poverty, or seeming poverty. 
He saw that I did that ; that I encouraged another who loved mOt 
and who had wealth, but for whom I had no loo 


THE UNEXPECTED. 


*97 


He must have seen all that ; I know that he did. Surely, then, it 
hardly needed that last suicidal act to destroy whatever of love he 
had for me ! 

‘ I loved him from the first, from the first day I saw him. I had 
seen no one else like him ; no one so true, so calm, so great I I 
have seen no one like him since, nor shall I. 

‘No, it is over — my life, or rather my hope of happiness in life. 
But I may help to make others happy/ 

So Miss Theyn was musing ; yet shall it be confessed that the 
conclusion, the last result of her thought, was less supremely satis- 
fying than it should have been. But in extenuation let it be 
remembered that she had only just entered upon her twenty-fifth 
year. At twenty-five one’s opinions should be all settled ; one 
should be decided in politics, social science, and above all in matters 
theological. That one should then, at that age, have anything left 
to learn, much less to discover, argues ill for the completeness of 
one’s education. 

Thorhilda Theyn’s education was yet incomplete ; but sorrow 
and pain had helped forward the process most satisfactorily of late. 
Yet that she should not be able to find perfect rest in the idea of 
perfect renunciation was a fact that told its own tale. Life was 
still strong within her, with love of all that life means. Desire for 
sympathy, for deep affection, still held their natural sway in her 
heart. She might be strong to control the yearning, strong to con- 
ceal it ; but the power to destroy it was not yet hers ; it might 
never be. Perhaps she hardly wished for the power. 

Do we any of us wish it ? We live, and are denied, and suffer. 
And when at last even the power of suffering is dead within us, 
what are we ? What are we then, when all human and lovable 
qualities have been so crushed within us, because there is no one 
near to feel our love, to care for it, much less to try by tender 
human wiles to cherish it ? What are we then ? 

Some of us who so suffer are simply what our friends make of us. 
We accept a frigid acquaintanceship — accept it with many smiles 
and much amiability — and go on living a life that is a very death. 
Others resent the entire state of things, and grow bitter, and meet 
with only bitterness in return. In how many such might one find 
a . dole world of genuine and generous sweetness, only wanting the 
one daring touch of that daring thing — a pure human love ? 

Again there are some, perhaps but a few, who are so ready, so 
bright, so light, so unconscious, or apparently unconscious of self, 
that pity or compassion seems the last thing they can need. They 
think of others so perpetually that no one thinks of them. 

If we do think of them at all, we think how happy they are, how 
well-to-do, how free from care, and we give a little sigh of envy ; 
and while we give that careless sigh the soul we breathe it upon 
may be sobbing out the last convulsion of a very passion of loneli- 
ness, of unfriendedness. 

They wandered back over the moor — the Canon and his niece ; 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


298 

and almost inevitably the latter was sadder than she had been when 
she set out. And it seemed as if her uncle’s somewhat unusual 
brightness made her sadder still. Almost it pained her — this new 
enjoyment of an apparently newly-recovered strength. It was as if 
some new life had been given him— new mental and emotional life 
rather than merely physical ; and yet there was some element 
present not entirely satisfactory. Almost it was fear that Miss 
Theyn felt — unknown, not understood fear. 

* My bosom’s lord sits lightly on its throne. * 

These words came to her mind all undesired , and even out of her 
own limited experience she could recall instances wherein this 
lighter sway of reason had but been the forerunner of tragic event. 
She was not superstitious, she was in the iiabit of laughing at pre- 
sentiments ; yet this evening, walking homeward over the moor, 
she felt herself to be. more tenderly drawn to this her second and 
true father than ever before. She watched his lightest action, 
hung upon his briefest word, felt his smallest request as a binding 
plea. And Hugh Grodfrey, if unaware, was not irresponsive. 

There was a small fir copse to be passed through between the 
moorland and the Rectory. The wind was singing gently in the 
tops of the pine-trees, sighing and singing with a kind of low-toned 
organ note. Between the boles of the trees could be seen the far- 
off silver light upon the sea ; a light that seemed not of heaven or 
of earth, but inherent in that wide world of water. Here and 
there a star was shining in the deep blue ether — shining silently, so 
far as human discerning could know. 

All was silent save for the sighing of the breeze. Not a bird- 
note broke upon the ear ; if the wavelets plashing down upon the 
beach made any sound, it was the sound of a murmur so subdued as 
to make the stillness more noticeable. It was the time, the place, 
to cause an aching heart to ache with a more piercing loneliness. 
Whatever trouble the soul might have, there was an atmosphere in 
which such trouble must seem to grow, to deepen, to weigh with a 
heavier pressure than before. Why is it so ? Why does the 
extreme of beauty everywhere touch upon the extreme of pain ? 

Canon Godfrey was resting, leaning his arm upon the low stone 
wall that bounded the fir copse at the western side. The gate was 
close at hand — the gate that led into Yar burgh Lane and down to 
the Rectory garden. 

* Wait awhile, dear,’ he said, when he first stayed his steps by the 
old lichen-covered gate. ‘ Let us rest a minute or two.’ 

‘You are tired. Uncle Hugh T 

^ I think I am ; tired all at once. . . It was so glorious out on 

the moor ; it is so glorious here !’ 

Miss Theyn saw how it was. The beauty— the unusual beauty 
— together with the exhilaration of the moorland air, had been 
together too strongly stimulating for the man whose strength had 
gone so utterly before. 


THE UNEXPECTED. 


299 


‘It is glorious. Still I think you will see the glory of it all from 
the Rectory, Will you not come now, Uncle Hugh ? It is grow- 
ing Jate !’ 

‘ Late! Yes, it is very late, and I am very glad. The evening 
has been so long.’ 

Ifot knowing why, Miss Theyn felt that her heart was beginning 
to beat somewhat rapidly, wildly. There was nothing to cause her 
appehension, yet she knew herself to be growing apprehensive. 

Ihe Canon* did not move. He was still leaning upon the old 
wall close to the gate. 

* Hasn’t it been a long evening — very long ?’ he said presently, 
spea'iing in a strange, dreamy way, quite new to him. And though 
no words could have been less alarming, the sense of alarm grew in 
Miss Theyn, heart and soul. 

She turned so that she could look into the Canon’s face. A 
crimson flush was deepening there, where for weeks, nay, months 
past, only the pallid hue of illness had been ; the kind blue eyes 
were burning with a strange intense brilliancy. 

Suddenly the Canon held out his hand, looking into his niece’s 
face with a pleading, pathetic look. He spoke with extreme 
difficulty. 

‘ Take my hand, Thorda ! Take it in yours ! It pricks ! It 
stings 1 Can’t you feel that it stings ? Don’t you feel it 
too ?’ 

Miss Theyn was trying to hold the outstretched hand in hers, 
doing her utmost to overcome the terror that held her in no 
uncanscious grasp. She had seen too much of late to be altogether 
unaware of the dread significance of the blow she had now to 
meet. 

Yet that first moment was overwhelming. She knew how help- 
less she was up there on the lonely moor, with no habitation nearer 
than the Rectory. In her distress she turned to see if any human 
help might by chance be approaching ; and it seemed no strange 
coincidence that a dark figure should be coming somewhat rapidly 
oyer the stony pathway. Looking into the Canon’s face again, she 
met no answering look. The eyes were still unnaturally bright, 
but all meaning was dying rapidly out of them, and the tired head 
w as drooping helplessly to one side ; the right arm still rested on 
the stone, wall. 

‘ Keep up a little longer. Uncle Hugh, just a little. Someone is 
coming — a gentleman,’ Thorda urged tremblingly. 

She knew that the gentleman must hear her, he was so close now, 
and he was coming toward the gate. 

But Hugh Godfrey did not hear her. His head was sinking 
lower and lower. In a very passion of terror, Tborhilda put one 
arm round him and stretched out the other toward the stranger. 
What did it matter that he was not a stranger ? that her hand was 
laid compellingly upon the arm of Damian Aldenmede ? What 
could such things matter in that dread moment ? 


300 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


/ 
i 

There was no word of recognition ; nor was any needed. Dan^an 
understood all in that first glance. He returned the pressure of 
Miss Theyn s hand, not looking into her face at all, but only Into 
the face of the unseeing friend before him. 

‘ Do your best to support Mr. Godfrey for a few minute^* he 
begged, ‘ I will have help here immediately/ 


CHAPTER LXVI 

AS A TALE THAT IS TOLD. 

* One cannot judge 

Of what has been the ill or well of life 

The day that one is dying — sorrows change [ 

Into not altogether sorrow-like. [ 

I do not see sadness ; but scarce misery, 

Now it is over, and no danger more.’ 

The night following that evening upon the moorland hills was a 
strange but not unbeautiful time at Yarburgh Rectory. All nigkt 
three persons had keep watch in a quiet room. The dying man’s 
wife had borne the ordeal well ; and his niece had endured not less 
worthily, considering the extreme of her suffering. Each of these 
women knew that they had been strengthened by the presence of a 
man whose experience of suffering had been long and varied. 

When the morning came it seemed to Miss Theyn that Damian 
Aldenmede had been by her side for weeks or months. Every bok 
of his was understood, every gesture. 

In the brain of each there was a kind of dumb surprise that the 
anticipations of months should all have been overruled by the event 
of one single moment. 

The meeting (inevitably each of them had felt assured that they 
must meet some day) bad been rehearsed on either side, with details 
and circumstances now hopeful, and now most unhopeful, according 
to the mood of the dreamer. Not one event had come to pass in 
accordance with any dream. 

It was a careless word in a careless letter that had brought 
Damian Aldenmede to England. He had expected to find Miss 
Theyn in the home of her friend Mrs. Thurstone, and had arrived 
there on the very day on which the telegram had been received 
stating that the Canon was less well than usual. He had followed 
Miss Theyn as far as Danesborough, and there he had stayed 
making earnest inquiries day by day. So it was that he had 
appeared at a moment when he was most needed, least expected. 

‘ Certainly Fate is kind to one sometimes,’ he said to Miss 
Theyn, as they stood together by the fire in the Canon’s room, at 
midnight. 

‘ Fate ?’ she said inquiringly, lifting a calm white face to his 
grave countenance, bent down a little to hers. 

‘ You know how I meant the word. We do not need to discuss 


AS A TALE THAT IS TOLD. 


301 


that;, yon and T. No day of my life is lived but I am impressed the 
more with belief in a personal Providence — the Providence of a 
God who has given me that day, and will require an account 
of it’ 

Miss Theyn was silent for awhile, and a little sad. 

‘ Is not the thought almost too impressive for everyday use for 
everyone of us?’ she said at last. ‘We can bear it just now, 
because we stand in the presence of one who has never lost the 
thought, and is going to his rest now willingly, gladly, because he 
has not. I speak of common days, of more ordinary hours. Is not 
the thought too heavy ?’ 

‘Not, surely, if we take it rightly. To be impressed is not 
necessarily to be depressed. Nay, for me the darkest hours and the 
lightest, the brightest, may mingle their diverse elements with no 
incongruity. Is not this such an hour for both of ui ? Will you 
not let it be such ?’ 

Damian Aldenmede paused then, watching the face of the woman 
he loved, seeing its expression change in the firelight from deepest 
calm to almost painful confusion. The change distressed him. 

‘ You have suffered enough,’ he said, taking Thorhilda’s hand in 
his, and holding it tenderly. ‘ And I can well unders^nd that this 
hour is one that must have yet more of suffering in it. Yet the 
joy, the extreme of happiness, may be all the deeper, the keener, 
for this sublimation of pain. May it not be so ? We are here, by 
the side of one who has lived, and loved, and suffered, and whom 
we both love ; and he is going from us — going into that silent land 
whither we must one day follow him. Will you not let him have 
the happiness of knowing of our happiness before he leaves us ? 
Indeed, I have fancied he was waiting for the knowledge, hoping 
for it ! You will let me speak of it to him ?’ 

Thorhilda was pale and tremulous, yet she looked up as if she 
would search the face that was watching hers. 

‘ You can ask this — you can wish it — -knowing all T 

He would not affect to misunderstand her. 

‘ Yes, knowing all ; and partly because of my knowledge,’ he 
replied. ‘And not forgetting that I myself was to blame for much 
of your suffering. Is it vanity to think that if I had told you, or 
given you to understand at the very first that my love was yours — 
yours from the first hour I met you — is it vanity to think that all 
would have been different? Do not answer me if an answer 
would be pain. I have other things to confess ; and it may be 
that my confession will be in some sense an extenuation. If I had 
not suffered, if the remembrance of my suffering had not been 
strong upon me, I had not refrained from trying to win your 
affection. And that another should be trying to win it was a 
possibility I could not face. The news came upon me like a shock 
— a far more terrible shock, let me say it, than I received on hearing 
that you had at last thought and acted for your better self. For- 
give me if I speak too plainly-^it is better. Let all be fair between 


302 


IN EXCHANGE FOE A SOUL. 


ns, all quite open. There is much in my past that is painful— 
nothiug that I cannot tell you. And as for you, there is nothing 
that you need say — not a word. I know it all.* 

Again there was effort on Miss Theyn’s part. 

‘ Yes, you must know,’ she said presently. ‘And I am glad that 
it is so. I have not strength just now to lay bare all my past 
weakness, my past ignorance, as I should wish to do. Such strength 
only comes by moments at a time.* 

‘ Then wait for the time, dear !* 

‘Yes, I must. I must some day tell you how, when I began to 
feel your affection, I yet would not let myself yield to the spell of 
it, and all because I dreaded poverty — simply that — the dread of 
the effort, and self-denial of poor living.* 

‘ And now you dread that no longer ?’ 

The question was asked in all sincerity. Damian Aldenmede had 
ascertained how much of the actual state of his circumstances had 
been communicated to Miss Theyn by Mrs. Thurstone, how much 
by Lady Diana Haddingley. Each of these ladies had said nearly 
all she knew ; neither had known the truth. 

So it was that when Thorhilda Theyn gave her word of promise 
to the artist who had won her love, she knew but little more than 
that he was a man of good birth, but of somewhat fallen fortune. 
Later she knew his whole life-story, not as told by Lady Di 
Haddingley or another. He told her all himself. But that night 
she was content to know nothing save that her life’s one love was 
returned, and that nothing now stood in the way of her future 
happinesss. Her future happiness ! It was a happiness that domi- 
nated even the present hour of pain. A little later, as she stood 
by Canon G-odfrey’s bed-side, Damian Aldenmede at her right 
hand, the Canon saw how it was with them, and the smile on his 
wan, white face expressed all his satisfaction. 

‘ I have wished for this : I have wished to know,’ he said, speak- 
ing with effort. ‘Dear Thorda, this atones for all — for all my 
weakness, my cowardice 1* 

‘ Hush, Uncle Hugh ! The weakness was mine, only mine I It 
was you who saved me. But for you I had exchanged my 
soul, my very soul, for a mess of pottage — the pottage of an easy 
competence.* 

‘ And how many lives are wrecked on that same rock !* the Canon 
replied. 

He was lying back on the white pillows that propped him to a 
half-sitting posture. The thin, golden-brov^n hair streaked with 
white curled upon his wet forehead. Tne blue eyes shone 
brightly, intensely, as with deepest fervour of living, with keenest 
fervour of suffering. 

‘Ah, yes, how many lives are wrecked there! It is a rock the 
poor, the very poor, are saved from as certainly as the rich. Thei/^ 
God help them, are content to live from day tolday, happy so that 
they do not suffer actual starvation. It is the class, or rather the 


AS A TALE THA T IS TOLD. 


303 

classes, next above that suffer really. They cannot beg, they can 
seldom borrow, they can do little but suffer in silence. So it is 
that they are tempted. ... If you can, Thorda dear, help those — 
those who do not complain, who do not ask, who do not come 
before societies — yes, always help such as put a brave face on their 
poverty.’ 

‘ There I can give you some little comfort, Uncle Hugh. I 
think I may say that 1 have learned to look below the surface. 
So you see that your life has not been lived in vain, so far as I am 
concerned. There are others, many others, who will say the same, 
, , . Will any say it so truly, so sadly as I do ?’ 

* Sadly ^ Thorda dear ?’ 

‘ Yet, very sadly, for much of the light you gave me I refused to 
follow — yes, I refused till the very last. That was my sin. It has 
had its punishment, as all wilful sin must have — sin committed 
against light, in the midst of light,* 

‘ But that is over now, dear.’ 

‘ No, it is not. Uncle Hugh. It never can be. I would not wish 
that it should. All my life must be sadder, the less bright and 
beautiful for the shadow of that remembered sin. I believe it to 
be a sin forgiven, but I would not even wish it forgotten. It will 
keep me low, when temptation to spiritual pride would lift me 
higher than it would be safe for me to go. . . . No, I can never for- 
get ; I would not if I could. • . , But now for a while let us forget 
ourselves — our present selves. . , . I have been thinking of Hartas. 
Would you not wish to see him. Uncle Hugh? ... I know he will 
be wishing intensely to see you.* 

The Canon smiled and clasped his niece’s hand ; then he drew 
from underneath his pillow an envelope addressed to his nephew, 
Hartas Theyn. It enclosed a letter written with much difficulty, 
and during keen bodily anguish. The Canon passed it to Damian 
Aldenmede. 

‘Will you take this to Hartas ?’ he said. ‘Will you take nowf 
It is a request that he will come and see me, and that if it seem 
good to him and to Barbara Burdas they will come together. You 
can understand.* 


CHAPTER LXYII. 

AT DAWN OP DAY, 

•Weep not ; 0 friends, we should not weepi 
Our friend of friends lies full of rest, 

No sorrow rankles in his breast.’ 

The sun had risen above the eastern sea with a soft, gray, gentle, 
radiance, lighting all the far faint waters with a silvery glow that 
seemed tenderer and more poetic by far than the more dazzling 
and aggressive tints of rose and daffodil that often mark the rising 
of the sun above the northern ocean. 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


S04 

There is far less variation than might be deemed in this same 
cloud scenery. For that one whole summer a certain purple bar 
of cloud edged with amber rested athwart the eastern horizon from 
sunset to almost sunrise. Evening after evening the orb went 
down into the sea to the north-west, glowing under that heavy 
slanting bar, and morning by morning, but some two or three 
hours later, the sun uprose under the shadow of the same cloud, 
which had moved slowly to the north-east, and now was edged with 
rose-pink, now with golden- yellow, now with palest silvery gray. 
It was of this faint silver tone that morning when Canon Godfrey 
asked that bis narrow iron bedstead might be wheeled to the side 
of the open window. And even as he lay there with clasped 
hands, uplifted eyes, and fervid, prayerful lips, his name was being 
urged pleadingly by another. 

‘ Come with me, Barbara,^ Hartas Theyn was saying. He had 
come over from the Grange before daylight, holding in his hand 
the letter that Damian Aldenmede had brought to him. 

* Come with me,’ Hartas repeated. ‘ Look at this letter ; it is 
my Uucle Hugh’s. He knows all. He speaks of his faith in you ; 
he alludes to his hope for me. . . But even now, be yourself, 

Barbara. Don’t let your regard for him lead you to be untrue to 
yourself.’ 

Barbara listened, white, pallid, yet strong in her own pure con- 
sciousness of purest intention; 

Since that terrible time when she had been rescued from suffer- 
ing, if not from death, partly by the effort of Hartas Theyn, she 
had been more than ever sure of her feeling toward him. But in 
her inmost heart she admitted that not that night, nor another, 
had been needed for the conquest of her affection. 

‘ It is no use — no use at all attempting to conceal it from myself. 
I love him— I have loved him always, and all the more because 
there was no one else to love him truly, to see the good in him — 
the good that only needed trial and trouble to bring it out. . . . 
Now all the world — that is, the little world about us — sees how 
good he is, how brave, how strong I’ 

All these thoughts, and many others, passed through the heart 
and brain of Barbara as she stood there by the little gate at the 
top of the steps in the growing dawn-light. 

‘ I will be ready in a minute or two,’ sh® said presently. ‘ I 
must ask old Hagar to come in and look after Ildy and Jack. 
Then I will go with you. ... Be patient for a little while I’ 

She smiled, rather sadly, as she spoke ; the need for patience was 
evidently so strong in Hartas Theyn. To this day the need is his. 
If he waits while his wifeladdresses a letter he walks up and down 
the room, chafing as a man might chafe who awaited a warrant 
ordering all his future fate. You might imagine that every line 
contained a decretal, ‘ To be or not to be,’ affecting the continu- 
ance of his future life. 

The sun was yet only fairly risen above the top of the eastern 


AT DAWN OF DAY. 


305 


cliffs -vrlien Barbara and Hartas Theyn entered the Rectory gates. 
Bab had put on her mourning dress, a plain black gown and a 
simple black bonnet, almost innocent of trimming, and lamentably 
far from the fashion of the hour. But of this she was not aware ; 
nor was anyone who saw her aware. Canon Godfrey, looking 
upon her as she entered his room, as she came and stood by the 
bed where he lay dying, held out his hand with the warmth, the 
respect he had shown to the noblest woman of his acquaintance. 
If the question had been asked of him, he would in all probability 
have said, ‘I know no greater, nobler woman than Barbara 
Burdas.’ 

She quite understood why it was that the Canon had wished to 
see her in these, the last moments of his life. From the begin- 
ning she had understood his wish ; been glad, proud of his appreci- 
ation. In the darkest hours of her life the belief that he believed 
in her had been as a strong spiritual stimulant. 

The sun was shining across the room by this time, throwing a 
halo of light all about the pillow of the dying man. The shadow 
of the trees but just outside flickered and danced upon the wall ; 
upon the ivory-white hangings that were all about the bed ; and 
the light was of that fresh inspiring kind that marks certainly the 
beginning of the day. No true nature-lover can ever be deceived 
as to the difference between the vivid brightness of the rising sun, 
and the subdued keenness of the sun that is setting. There is not 
even similitude. 

‘ I knew you would come,’ the Canon said, lifting his still blue 
and kindly eyes to Barbara’s face. There was a smile on his lip, 
the old warm, winning smile ; but Barbara had much ado to pre- 
vent responsive tears. * I knew you would come — you and Hartas. 
It seemed so necessary that I should see you again ; that I should 
know before I go how it is to be with you. Hartas ! Barbara ! 
... Is the word said — the one word that is to decide all ? . . . 
If it is not, can you tell me why ? Is there anything I can say to 
make that word easier to either of you ?’ 

It was a strange hour. It seemed as if it were only yesterday 
that he had astonished his wife by saying, ‘ I am not sure that I 
should consider Hartas’s marriage to Barbara Burdas such a great 
calamity !’ 

And how much had happened since then I And mostly the 
events had justified his saying. The change iu Barbara herself 
was not greater than the change in the Squire's son, and every- 
where people were attributing these changes to their rightful 
source. Yes, it was a strange hour, and never to be forgotten. 

It was Barbara who replied to the Canon’s question. At that 
moment she was the stronger of the two, and seeing Hartas’s white 
face by the foot of the bed, his dark eyes lifted pleadingly to hers, 
his mute white lips almost tremulous, she smiled, and spoke for 
him as for herself. 

‘No, the word has never been said — the word that you ask 

20 


IN EXCHANGE FOE A SOUE 


306 

about. How should it have been said ? For from the time that it 
was possible, that is to say, the time when your nephew helped to 
save me and mine from a terrible death, he has given me no chance 
to say it. . . . Is not that true, Mr. Theyn ?’ 

The pale face at the lower end of the bed flushed with a 
tremulous pain. 

‘ If the question hasn’t been put into words, I think you have 
known the young man said, speaking awkwardly enough, yet 
not without pathos in his accent and appeal. 

Barbara could only blush the more deeply, and look down in 
silence. 

‘ Say it’s true, Barbara ! — that you’ve never given me the chance 
to speak— not a fair chance — since you must have known I couldn’t 
presume after that night out in the roads. ’Twas for you to give 
way a little then — to make some opening. I’ve waited for it, I’ve 
waited all along, and no one can say I haven’t waited patiently !’ 

‘ It’s just as I thought !’ the Canon said. ‘ It is all just as I 
imagined it to be. • , . But, oh, how foolish you have been ! Life 
is very short ; it is very full of pain, of suffering, of all that calls 
for human fortitude and endurance. Therefore it is that it seems to 
me that no crumb of happiness, of true happiness, should ever be 
permitted to fall to the ground. And you are wasting yours — both 
of you. Was it needful that I should die ? that I should lie here 
in a brief waiting space, waiting for the friend “I travel to meet”? 
Was-this to be before I could see you together, ui’ge you not to 
waste one more day of possible happiness ? . . . Ah, how strange 
it is !’ 

The Canon was not impatient. The truth was written on each 
of the two true faces beside him ; and it was the very truth that he 
had longed to see, to know. 

In the silence that followed, Hartas came round to the side of the 
bed where Barbara had hitherto stood alone, quite near to the Canon. 
In the nervous awkwardness but natural to her she had refused to 
sit down. Hartas held out his hand, a strong, brown hand, and he 
looked into her face as he offered it. 

Perhaps it was better that he did not speak. Barbara saw the 
palpitating tremor — it was almost fear — as if he knew that that 
one moment must decide everything. 

It was a strong and deep silence that followed. The Canon 
looked from the one face to the other, then he smiled, and holding 
out his own hand, he clasped the two hands that had already met, 
binding them there in his own warm, almost convulsive clasp. 

‘ It is decided then ?’ he said. ‘ You are one ? ... I go with 
this knowledge ?’ 

Hartas placed his other hand upon the one that Barbara had left 
in the Canon's grasp. 

‘ You will yield at last V he said, looking into the strong, suffering 

* * Beads,' a common term for the sheltered waters off a seaport or 
•hallow bay. 


AT DAWN OF DAY. 


307 


face of the girl. ‘Say that you will! You shall not repent, Bar- 
bara. Every hour of all my future life shall be set to make your 
life in this world happy — both our lives happy in the world to be ! 
, . . Say a word, only one ; you have it in your power to make — 
well, I was going to say hell or heaven of the days to come. But that 
would be going beyond the truth ; and there is no need for that. 
The simple truth lies deep enough between us two. , . . You yield 
at lastV 

The final word had been uttered with extreme difficulty, as Bar- 
bara saw and heard, and with equal difficulty she replied to it. 

‘ I will be your wife,' she said, almost sobbing out the words, yet 
controlling herself with all the strength left to her. And, as each 
one then felt, the betrothal was almost as a sacrament, being solemn 
and holy and binding. A light word, a careless smile, had jarred 
upon the sense of anyone assembled in that room as the passing of 
some evil thought had jarred upon the soul. 

‘ It is decided, then ?’ the Canon said presently. ‘You will make 
each other happy ?' 

‘ I will do my best,’ Hartas replied, speaking with evident effort. 

Barbara only smiled gravely. She had no more words at her 
command just then. 

‘ I believe that you will — that you will do the very beat it is in 
your power to do,’ Canon Godfrey replied, turning to Hartas. 
* And I do not think that words of mine are needed now to show 
you what that best means. , . . After all, life is very simple for 
the most part, and when it is complex the simplest heart and mind 
sees its way most clearly. ... I have not strength to say much 
more ; but let me impress two things upon you. The first is this : 
hold fast by prayer. If you are well and happy, and all is going 
smoothly, thank God in prayer. If you are fearful, and doubtful, 
and tremulous for the future, take all your doubt and fear to One 
who alone can understand. Take it there, and leave it there — nay, 
remain there yourself. 


* “ Safe on the steps of Jesu’s throne, 

Be tranquil, and be blest.’ 

‘ What a picture that is in two brief lines for a soul worn, wearied, 
suffering ! But it is not given to us to stay there long— at the foot 
of the Great White Throne. We have to come down from such 
mountain heights as these to face the fight in the valley below, the 
valley of every-day life, every-day endurance, every-day suffering 
and self-denial. . . . And that brings me to the second thing I have 
to say — the force and the power that is to be bought by the mere 
denial to one’s self of things lawful in themselves. 

‘ I have not strength left to say all I would wish to say on this 
head, but let me urge at least this, that you will make trial of 
judicious self-restraint even in common things. It may be that you 
have done much, it is joy to me to believe that you have, yet to all 
of us there remain heights not yet attempted. And when we have 
gained them, the last of them in sight at starting, we find that there 

CO — 


JN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


308 

are yet others beyond ; so it is that the allurements of the spiritual 
life lead us on from the world that now is to the world that is to be. 
And how grateful we should be for such gradual drawing I . . • 
Only let us always try to respond to the least and faintest call from 
the spirit- world which is but just outside ; let us never fail to ba 
responsive. 

‘ We are more than we seem ; the worst, the lowest, the weakest 
human soul among us is more than we deem it to be. 

• “ Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting, 

The soul that rises with us, — our life’s star, 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 

And cometh from afar. 

Not in entire forgetfulness, 

And not in utter nakedness, 

But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
From God, who is our home.’* ’ 

CHAPTER LXVIII. 

*LET US ARISE, AND GO.' 

‘ Is it deep sleep, or is it rather death ? 

Rest anyhow it is, and sweet is rest.* 

One day, not many weeks before, the Canon had asked to have a 
curious little fancy gratified. In the room that had been Thor- 
hilda’s schoolroom there was an old piano which had belonged to his 
mother. It had not been much used of late ; it might not be in 
tune ; yet its notes had a lingering, old-fashioned sweetness of their 
own. 

‘ Have it brought downstairs for me, Milicent dear,* he had 
begged. ‘ I should like it to stand just outside my room, in that 
recess on the landing.’ 

As a matter of course his wish had been gratified, and now and 
then he had played a little wandering music on it himself ; now 
and then, too, his wife had played ; but more frequently he had 
asked his niece to play the things he loved best : simple, plaintive 
pieces of music they were for the most part, demanding more 
expression than execution. One especial favourite was a ‘Pre- 
ghiera,* from the Zampa of Herold, a prayer that seemed more 
like a quiet yielding up of all that-was left to offer than like beseech- 
ing or yearning. He had never ceased to weary of this. 

And now, this autumn morning, he asked once more for the piano 
to be opened ; he made the request so simply, so naturally, that 
Thorhilda felt no sense of incongruity. 

‘ Play it once again, dear, the prayer !’ he asked, holding out his 
hand, which his niece took and held in hers for a moment or two. 

The sunlight was lower now, lower upon the white coverlet of 
the bed. The shadow of the ash-tree leaves still danced to and fro ; 
the room was still flooded with the light of the morning sun, and 
he who lay there wished to have it so. 

They were all there, those whom he loved best. His wife sat 


^ LET VS ARISE, AND GO* 309 

beside liim, restraining her tears with all the strength of self- 
control she had. Hartas Theyn and Damian Aldenmede stood side 
by side at a little distance. Barbara Burdas was by the window. 
She would have left the room, but the dying man had wished her 
to remain, thinking in his own heart that her calm strength would 
help to strengthen others. 

It might have seemed strange to some that anyone should wish 
for music in that last dread hour of life ; but there was no strange- 
ness in the request for anyone who had known Hugh Godfrey 
intimately. Thorhilda understood, and complied at once ; and 
even for herself it was well that she did. 

The notes came softly, gently — ah ! that one might reproduce 
them here with all their beautiful yielding and renunciation — sad 
beauty it is, yet even the sadness is pure and unearthly. 

There was a smile on the face of the dying man, a look of quiet 
and perfect happiness, as he lay and listened. When the last note 
had Ibeen played, he looked up for his niece^s return to his bedside. 

‘ Thank you, Thorda,’ he said, speaking with not much apparent 
effort. ‘ And now I am going to sleep. . Let me say good-bye. 

. . . And let me say something else I have not had the courage to 
say as yet. It is this. I say it to one and all. I say it with all 
the strength left to me. Do not sorrow for me when I am gone / . - 
I entreat you not to sorrow. 

‘ You remember the words heard of him to whom the vision was 
vouchsafed in the Isle of Patmos — words uttered by a voice from 
Heaven, saying : 

‘ “ Write ; Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord from hence* 
forth : Yea^ saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labour sT 

‘ That they may rest ! . . I have not talked much of my weari- 

ness, have I, Milicent dear ? But I have been very tired. . . . Life 
is a very tiring thing. ... I have an opinion — I have held it long 
^that human life will not always be so tiring. , T think people 
will see, will have their eyes opened to discern when their friends, 
their neighbours, are breaking down, dying for very tiredness. And 
then they will help each other. . . They will not wait to show 
their sympathy by sending a beautiful wreath of white flowers to 
the grave-side. . . . No, they will see a little before ; and help will 
be given ; and people will rest. They will know what it is to rest 
in life — not in death only. . . . And there are other changes coming 
— greater than these. I shall see them, but not now. I shall behold 
them, but not nigh. . . . But I have no wish to wait to see — no, 
none at all. • • . I am too weary — so very weary that I am glad 
to go. 

‘ Glad — yes, but not glad as those are who enter into life singing. 
No ; I must enter sighing, if, indeed, I enter at all — sighing for 
things done, for things left undone. 

‘ If there be any singing, it will be the song of those who make 
joy in the presence of the#Angels of God over each sinner that 
repents 

‘ Those who make joy in tho presence, of the Angels ! . . , Who 


310 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 

are they ? . . . Surely they must be of those who know ‘of the 
sins, the sufferings of the human beings who repent ? . , . Know- 
ledge they must have of us who sin — yes, knowledge and sympathy 
—deep and keen sympathy with every soul acquainted with spiritual 
failure. . . • . And which of us is not acquainted with such 
failure ? . . , 

‘We have dreams — nay, more than dreams, more than visions, 
more than ideals— we have a well-dehned model of life set before 
U8^ in closest detail, rprhutest detail. . . . And we will not see it. 
If we are now and then compelled to see^ we refuse to follow. 

‘ We refuse. . , . Now that I lie here, dying, I see that I myself 
have refused to live up to the standard of life demanded of me. 
o o o o o 

‘ Aldenmede. • • , Thorda. • • • Live the life I would now live if 
I could J 

EPILOGUE 

Two years have passed by — years of change, of joy, of sorrow to 
almost everyone of those whose life-story has been told or touched 
upon in this brief history. 

As a matter of course, there is a new Eector at Yarburgh 
Rectory — a young, strong, energetic man, who has had his own way 
to fight, and has fought somewhat bravely. If some new story- 
teller were to tell his tale, and to tell it truly, it would be worth 
reading. But, indeed, I think he could tell it best himself. If his 
story should perchance be as lively as his sermons, one might con- 
sider that a new departure in autobiography had been taken. 

The old way of ending a story to the music of the church bells 
that ring out the old solo of single life, ring in the beautiful new 
duet of the life to be, is not at all a way to be decried. It is 
commonplace, you say ; so is the fact it represents. 

But the art to tell the true story of the marriage that took place 
at Yarburgh awhile ago is not mine. People said it was a very 
beautiful wedding — that the two people principally concerned, that 
is to say, Thorhilda Theyn and Damian Aldenmede, looked, each 
of them, so grand, so great, that the onlookers felt as if they had 
never seen either of them with any true appreciation before. And 
it was not the dress — even Mrs. Kerne, the bride’s aunt, made haste 
to say that. No, it was not the dress — for even Miss Theyn's dress, 
though it was white, and light, and suggestive of all maiden purity, 
was yet not a costly or studiously impressive costume. The Danes- 
borough Gazette described it in detail ; describing also the dress of 
the two bridesmaids, one of whom was the bride's sister. Miss 
Rhoda Theyn, and the other the Honourable Sarah Thelton. Other 
details were added, among the rest, that Mr. and Mrs. Aldenmede 
had started on their wedding tour a few hours after the ceremony. 
They had decided upon the small and quaintly attractive hotel in the 
Finstermianlz Pass as a place in which to live for awhile in perfect 
beauty, in perfect quiet. How perfect the beauty was can hardly 


EPILOGUE. 


311 

be told in words. The snow was white upon the Alpine heights ; 
the mountain torrents rushed rapidly down the scarred rocks, among 
the dark pines. All day long the sun shone brilliantly into the 
ravine — shining with such force, such glad exhilaration as made of 
life a new and keen pleasure. 

‘ Every morning, as soon as I am fairly awake, I feel new made,’ 
Mrs. Aldenmede declared. ‘ I believe that if I might live here I 
should never grow old. . . . And you, Damian, you look ten years 
younger than you did on the day on which I first saw you !’ 

‘ You remember that day ?’ 

‘Eemember it? Am I likely to forget? . . . What I would 
forget, if I could, is the blindness that came after.’ 

‘And ago I commanded you to put all recollection of that 

away. . . . )ear, we cannot afford to look too much into the past. 
We can nooe of us afford that. Where is the man or woman whose 
past is not spoiled or marred in one way or another ? All we have 
to do is to repent, to confess when we have erred, and then set out, 
brightly, strongly, on a new and better way. And there is much 
for us to do. Our life will not be empty of work, of thought, of 
much care for others. ... I want to prepare you for that, dear ; 
for work rather than leisure ; for thought rather than ease. ... I 
expect that there will be no grain of the knowledge, the experience 
you have learned while with Mrs. Thurstone but will not be of use 
to you now — of use to others.’ 

‘ .ATnd are you fearing that I shall not be glad to be of use ?’ 

‘ You ask that question too lightly for me to give any formal 
answer. If you were truly afraid of my opinion it would be 
different. ... No ; ... I expect that I shall only have to exert 
my influence in the way of restraint.’ 

There was another pause, broken by Mrs. Aldenmede. They 
were sitting on one of the rustic seats near the lower part of the 
garden— if indeed so wild and uncultivated a spot could be called 
a garden at all. A light wind was whispering in the pines, catch- 
ing the tops of the tall campanulas ; a perfect chorus of crickets 
were chirping loudly in the grass. 

‘ I hope you have been impressed by one thing,’ Thorda said at 
last. ‘ I have been your wife now seven weeks, and I have not 
asked you seven questions concerning your future home — yours and 
mine.* 

Damian smiled. 

‘ 1 have been greatly impressed,’ he replied ; ‘ but I think I have 
understood. ... It was a little perance, was it not ?’ 

‘Not a little one. I have wanted to know so much.’ 

‘ It is somewhat strange that you should have kept your silence 
unbroken until to-day.’ 

‘ Is it ? , . Why ? ... Is to-day more than any other day ?’ 

‘ In one sense it is. . . . You saw what a packet of letters I had 
this morning ?’ 

‘ Yes j and I saw that one or two absorbed you, and that you 


312 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 

gathered them up, and took them away, and never spoke of them to 
me at all 

* And yet you ask no question 1 You are a dear, patient wife. 
... It consoles me to think that reward may come.* 

* It has come ; I know it ; I know that something has happened I 
Tell me what !’ 

Damian Aldenmede rose up from his seat and walked up and down 
the road for awhile. The expression on his face was very grave. 

‘ I ought not to keep you in suspense,’ he said at last. ‘ My uncle 
is dead ; he died suddenly nearly four days ago. The telegram that 
was sent has never reached us. It is too late for us to dream of 
going to King’s Alden for the funeral. . . • I am very sorry ; and 
I think — I fear we must go soon.’ 

Mrs. Aldenmede received the news in silence. Though she did 
not understand all, she knew much ; at any rate, she knew that the 
two sons of Sir Ralph Aldenmede had been dead for some years. 
King’s Alden— a place of which she had heard from others — would 
now belong to her husband ; and the title would be his — and hers. 
But she recollected that, in all probability, no great wealth would 
come with the title, while assuredly great responsibility would come. 
This was what her husband had tri^ to prepare her for. 

Presently she joined him as h© walked up and down, placing her 
arm in his, and walking silently for a while. 

‘ King’s Alden is a pretty place, is it not ?’ she asked by-and-by. 

‘ Pretty ? No, dear, I should not call it pretty. I do not suppose 
it could ever be made so. . . . Still, we will do what we can, and 
we need not live there more than you like.’ 

• o o o • # 

It was not much more than a month later when one evening a# 
carriage drove in at the gates of the avenue of chestnuts that lined 
the way to King’s Alden. It was early twilight. The tall trees 
almost shut out the sky. The broad white road gleamed straight 
all the way before them j here and there a marble vase held some 
rare late-flowering plant ; here and there a fountain was playing in 
the midst of a bed of gay flowers. 

There were lights in the windows all along the front of the house; 
a stately house it was, built by Vanbrugh, and frequently men- 
tioned as one of the architect’s master-works, though rather for its 
beauty of proportion than for its size or grandeur. It was built of 
the red granite of the neighbourhood ; yet it had in the daylight a 
curiously cold and hard look. 

Damian Aldenmede, who had seen it in his youth, had had a 
strong fear that the present mistress of King’s Alden might be 
rather repelled than attracted by the first sight of it. He was glad 
that the gray twilight lent so much soft mystery to it, and to its 
surroundings — glad too that their late arrival necessitated the 
lighting of many lamps and candles. All seemed bright enough 
now. There were some dozen of the old servants of the plai 0 
gathered to greet them ; flowers and plants had been placed in 


EPILOGUE. 


313 


abundance ; and above, on every side of the four-square hall, the por- 
traits of former post issors looked down, not all of them Aldenmedes. 

The place had changed hands more than once since Sir John 
Yanburgh had received his final cheque from the first owner. But 
the place had been long enough in the hands of the ancestors of Sir 
Damian Aldenmede for him to be enabled to feel, if not pride, 
then certainly satisfaction, in taking possession of a place that he 
hoped to be able to look upon as a home for him and for his for 
generations to be. It was no low or unworthy sensation that he 
felt as he handed his wife from the carriage that had been sent to 
meet them ; escorted her up the wide gray steps into the stately 
old entrance-hall. 

A white-headed man, grave and venerable, the steward of the 
late owner of King’s Alden, came forward with a little speech, 
that seemed to die on his lips as Lady Aldenmede hastened with 
girlish haste from her husband’s side and took the old man’s hand. 
She could bear no more of his formal and studied words. 

‘ I am glad, very glad to come to a home where there are some who 
are glad to see me,^ she said, with enthusiasm in every tone and look. 

Then turning to the others who stood near, she said : 

‘ It will require time to make us known to each other ; but no 
time is needed for me to assure you that we shall do our best to 
make this house a real home for everyone who may live under its 
roof — a real home, a Christian home, God granting that it be so. . . . 
I will tell you later all I mean by that ; and my husband will tell 
you better than I can. He has an idea that the true home is the 
world’s true centre. I need hardly say that I agree with him ; 
indeed, how much I agreed, I did not know till this present hour.’ 

Then, quite suddenly, the momentary enthusiasm failed, or rathe? 
the power to express it failed. 

‘ I haven’t made a speech, have I, dear ?’ Lady Aldenmede asked of 
her husband when they were left alone in the wide yet cheery-look- 
ing room, which had been prepared for them by no unwilling hands. 

Flowers were there ; they were everywhere. The dressing-table 
in Lady Aldenmede’s room was a very miracle of loveliness, and 
signs of care, of thought, were visible on every hand. It was not 
wonderful that half an hour later, when her husband came to see 
if she were dressed for dinner, he found her in tears — tears not 
easily charmed away. 

‘ It seems as if God Himself had rained down upon one’s head 
the coals of fire, the vengeance of an extreme and tender loving- 
ness. . . . You see it all, Damian, do you not ? Remember how I 
fell because of my dread of poverty, of a cold and naked life. Then 
at the last moment I was saved ; and after that it seemed as if all 
else must be penitence, as if only an extreme of privation could 
reconcile me to myself. And though I had a sort of fear in 
marrying you, a fear that my time of probation might probably be 
at an end, I did not dream of this, how could I V How could I 
dream of anything so far beyond the brightest earthly prospect 


314 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 


ever opened to me, even in thought before. And now, now I feel 
so small, so mean, so unworthy. It is as if some one had cast a 
splendid gift at me with words of scorn. And yet this is no right 
mood, and no, I do no rightly express my true mood, not all of it. 
I am grateful, I am very grateful, and I am happy in the midst of 
all my regretful sorrow, I am very happy ! . . We can do so much 
now, can we not, Damian ? There must be something to be done 
in a neighbourhood like this I’ 

‘ Something / I fear that everything waits to be done. So far as 
I know, the entire district about King’s Alden has been neglected, 
and this for generations. It will require our time, our money, our 
prayers, our patience, and the utmost of our help and strength, , . . 
Do not be afraid, dear, do not dread an unbroken felicity.’ 

‘ It is better so.’ 

*It is much better. . , . It seems like a paradox, but I am 
happier far in knowing that my happiness is not likely to be un- 
shaded, that the shadow of the crosses that fall upon other lives 
may cast the blessing of that shadow over my own, over both our 
own. ... So we need not fear.’ 

‘ No. . . . Yet is it not strange how an element of fear seems 
almost always to be mingled with any sudden or great felicity ?’ 

‘ Yes, it is strange ; but I for one would not wish it otherwise. 
And since it seems almost universal, there is doubtless some truth 
hidden underneath to be discovered at a later date. Often it seems 
to me that the world is yet but in its infancy. We know so little ; 
we discern that there is so much yet to be known.' 

‘ So it has seemed to me,’ Thorda replied ; ‘ yet I fancy that each 
one of us by our human life (if truly lived) may advance the 
Bcience of human living somewhat.’ 

‘ Ah ! there you touch upon an immense truth. Our life if truly 
lived ! We can none of us grasp all that that means in a single 
moment. Only the surface ideas occur to us. We know that we 
should be patient, be temperate, self-denying ; that we should have 
compassion for the sorrows of others, nay, that we should seek out 
such sorrows, set ourselves to avert sorrows that are only on the 
way to others ; but there is much beyond that we do not recognise. 
Which of us has a truly tender dread of the ills that mar the inner 
life of the people about us ? Nay, do we not start aside and leave 
suspected suffering to cure itself, or develop itself, as may be in 
the nature of it ? Dreading the evil of interference, we strike upon 
the rock of neglectful indifference.’ 

‘ And how shall any human being perceive the right medium ?’ 

‘ Only by being lovingly human. The true lover of humanity 
can hardly make grievous mistakes. If he should, his very loving- 
ness would cause his mistakes to be forgiven. 

‘ Charity beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, 
endureth all things. . . , Charity never faileth.’ 

* ♦ ije * ♦ 

In the spring of the year that followed, Sir Damian and Lady 


EPILOGUE. 


315 

AWenmede went once again to Ulvstan Bight. Mrs. Godfrey went 
with them — indeed, she went with them everywhere, as a cherished 
and valued companion, one who helped to make their home life richer 
and fuller, and graced it with much knowledge and experience. 

The meeting between those who came from King’s Alden and 
those who came from Garlaff Grange was as interesting as it was 
affectionate. Mr. and Mrs. Hartas Theyn were foremost in the 
group of people who entered the drawing-room at the new Alex- 
andra Hotel. The Squire arid Rhoda had purposely lingered a 
little behind, but it was easy to see that no ill-feeling had inspired 
them. The dinner passed off lightly and pleasantly, all undue 
warmth of emotion being decorously kept in the background for 
that evening. 

It was next morning on the cliff-top that Sir Damian Alden- 
mede, meeting Mrs. Hartas Theyn, was enabled to say a fitting 
word — a word that seemed to close a certain chapter of the family 
history. And Barbara replied with a dignity, a gentleness, a 
winningness all her own. 

‘ I always look upon that day when I met you on the scaur as 
the beginning of my life’s happiness,’ she said. ‘ The beginning of 
all true search after truth ; of all that has been good and helpful 
to me. Before you had spoken to me of anything but the common 
speech of the day I had wished to do something for you — to rise in 
some way a little nearer to your level. You awoke something in 
me that had slept before, but could never sleep again. And then 
you showed all your true generosity and helped me in every way ; 
and then she, Thorhilda, began to help me too ; and how I loved 
you both, and felt as if my love were all one ! It is so natural 
now, to be able to think of you together. Indeed, I think I have 
never thought of you apart. . . . And oh 1 I am happy, very happy ! 
To think of my being even related to you — to the very people I 
love so much I Yes, I never thought to be so happy !’ 

‘ And it is an all-round sort of happiness ?’ Damian Aldenmede 
asked. Barbara looked up quickly. 

‘ You are meaning with regard to my husband ? He has only one 
fault — an undue humility. I shall never cure him of it. But I 
am not sure that I wish to do so. . . . If he has another fault, it is 
an undue generosity. The money he gives away, the people he 
asks to come and stay with us, would be beyond belief if I were to 
tell you of it all in detail. But, somehow, we do not really seem 
the poorer for it. . . . And if we were, I believe that we should 
still be happy — even very happy ; he is so gentle, and so thoughtful, 
and so careful of me and mine. You know that he has sent Jack 
to a good school at Danesborough ; and if he were little Ilda’s own 
father he could not love her more. And the child’s love for him 
is most touching I If I had any jealousy in me it would certainly 
be awakened when I see her rushing to the door with her little 
arms outspread to meet him, and his outstretched to clasp her I • • . 
Ah 1 yes ; I am a very happy woman J* 


IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL 


Damian Aldenmede went away from the top of the cliff in t 
mood not easy to describle — the elements being so very various. 
Gratitude stirred in him, and wonder, and reverence ; and last, but 
not least, repentance for the want of faith and hope that had 
darkened so many of his days, and darkened them so unreasonably. 

‘ Why do we not trmt more ?’ he asked of himself. ‘ Surely the 
want of trust means defect in one’s self ! To live nobly, rightly, 
humanly, would be to store up a reserve for the days to be — even 
though the days should be few and evil. 

‘ “ Few and evil ” we deem them, these days of ours — but that is 
when they are overpast.’ 

‘In the beginning all is lightness and brightness — and all we 
have, all we desire, is flooded in the light of hope. Then dis- 
appointment follows, with perhaps despair ; and the utmost we can 
do is to hold on for awhile, as people cling to a wreck in the dark- 
ness and the storm. 

‘ And after the storm comes calm, with daybreak, and the sun 
shining over the tops of the dark mountains of grief that had 
surrounded us on every side. So we come to understand the 
ordering of this human life of ours, that it- is but as a travelling 
from the cradle to the grave — leading us, now by fair valleys, 
clothed with the olive and the vine, now by barren Alpine heights, 
where only snow and hail and mist lend variation to the scene. 
Again we descend, perhaps to the dreary shore of some dead sea of 
life, where we may wander on unhopefully, nay, even unwishfully. 
We would lie down and die if we could do so sinlessly ; and we 
wonder that sin should be in the wish. 

‘ But by-and-by the sun rises once more — the sun of faith, of 
hope, of belief in all that makes life worth the living. Then it is 
that we rise to full consciousness of all that lies in the tender, 
yearning, loving saying : 

‘ “ Fe will not come unto Afe, that ye might have life^^ 

‘ Then it is that at last we awaken to full perception of that great, 
grand truth, there is no life but that — the life hid in Christ Jesus. 

‘ “ 7 am the Life., the Truth., the Way /” 

‘ There is no other life, no other truth, no other way. All else 
is pain and darkness, and ignorance, and death. 

‘ There is no other way but the way of the cross, the way of 
daily, hourly self-denial, of perpetual watchfulness ; the way of 
unceasing prayer. 

^ “ Pray without ceasing.^ 

‘ That is life’s last secret. 

‘ The man or woman who is acquaintea with that secret will b« 
in no danger of exchanging his or her soul for any mess of pottage 
to be offered by this world of ours — this seductive, tempting, dis- 
appointing world.’ 


THE END. 






